


Parole

by tesha198



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Criminal Stiles, M/M, Pierced Stiles, Police Officer Derek, Stiles Returns to Beacon Hills, Tattooed Stiles, Top Derek Hale, True Alpha Scott, Vendetta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 29,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tesha198/pseuds/tesha198
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been gone from Beacon Hills for seven years without a trace, running from the knowledge his mother was murdered and his father covered it up. A lot has changed in his time away. Perhaps most noticeably - himself. After serving five years in jail Stiles' dad pulls some strings to get him paroled. The only snag, he's confined to Beacon Hills for the duration of his parole. The second he sets foot into the station he becomes Derek's pet project. The pack won't leave him alone, working endlessly to ensure he doesn't violate his parole and get sent back to jail. But Stiles doesn't want their help. He has plans of his own - none of which include a heartfelt reunion with the pack he ran from. Will the pack hinder his chances for revenge? Can Stiles find the answers he's been searching for or will his mother's case remain cold?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Stiles.” Scott whispered forcefully, hesitating in the doorway and shuffling his feet uncomfortably. “This is a bad idea.”

Stiles ignored him, focusing intently on his father’s messy desk littered with police reports.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Stiles mumbled, shuffling through a pile of messily scrawled notes about an ongoing case – not what he was looking for. “Besides, he had to know forbidding me from seeing the report would only make me want to see it.”

“We can get answers another way.” Scott frowned, taking a step into the Sherriff’s office but refusing to help dig through the files.

“Scott, someone is literally eating people. Like with their teeth.” Stiles huffed, moving the pile of police reports he’d already scanned through off to the side. “Now do you want to find out about the crime scenes or do you want to wait for someone else to become a human chicken wing?”

“Fine.” Scott conceded with an over exaggerated exhale. “But if your dad finds out I _will_ throw you under the bus. And maybe reverse a few times for good measure.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Stiles mumbled, distracted by the file he was flipping through.

Scott eyed him, waiting for Stiles’ typical brand of bragging at having found what they were looking for. Instead, Stiles’ face slowly contorted into a mask of pained confusion that had Scott fidgeting in discomfort.

“Find it?” Scott asked, arching a brow but keeping his voice carefully level.

“No.” Stiles muttered, so low it was a strain even for someone with wolf hearing to catch.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The Sherriff’s voice suddenly boomed through the office.

Scott’s eyes sprang to the door, grimacing at the Sherriff closing the office door to seal them inside with a furious scowl. Stiles didn’t even bother to look up from whatever police file had transfixed him.

“Stiles!” The Sherriff bellowed, clearly angry at being ignored. “I presume this harebrained scheme was your idea?”

“What is this?” Stiles demanded, finally raising his eyes from the folder he was clutching with white-knuckles to glare at his father, a deep-set pain beneath the anger in his eyes.

The Sherriff’s eyes darted between Stiles’ expression and the manila file folder open in his son’s hands.

“Stiles.” His father began, cautious as he tried to ease into the conversation.

“Dad. What is this?” Stiles repeated, much firmer than his original question and brimming with accusatory anger.

“A police report.” His father tried again, giving non-descript answers in hopes the situation would somehow melt into a more lighthearted one.

“Don’t do that.” Stiles gritted his teeth, glancing back down at the report in his hands before glaring harshly at his father. “Don’t try to lie to me. Though I guess you’ve been doing that for a while now.”

“Stiles. It was easier for you to believe she-“ The Sherriff tried again, taking a hesitant step towards his son only to have him take one back.

“Easier for who? Sure as hell not for me!” Stiles barked, practically shouting in his frustration. “You told me she died from an illness!”

“Stiles you don’t understand.” The Sherriff tried to reason, his voice strangely pitchy as he tried to remain calm.

“Oh I understand. I understand you lied to me.” Stiles ground out, betrayal twisting inside him like a snake slowly winding around his organs. “You let me believe my mother died of natural causes when apparently she was murdered. What possible reason could you have?”

“You were there.” The Sherriff rushed out, low and remorseful as recollection flashed across his face.

“What?” Stiles’ eyes widened for a moment in shock before narrowing back into a glare.

“You were there. When she died, you were there.” The Sherriff admitted, running a hand roughly through his hair to calm his frazzled nerves. “Afterwards, in the hospital when you were being checked out, you didn’t seem to remember the whole story. I let you believe what you needed to in order to cope.”

“Cope?” Stiles scoffed, clutching the folder in his hands so tightly he was beginning to crumple it. “Were years of therapy me coping? Were my constant panic attacks me coping? Were the nightmares and guilt me coping?”

“Stiles.” The Sherriff spoke his name as if the word was somehow an apology and it made Stiles seethe.

“If I really repressed it then I was in shock. You would have known that.” Stiles replied darkly, flatly, dismissing his half-hearted apology with ruthless accusation. “Did you even try to get me the help I would have needed? Or was it just easier for you to get drunk and let me bear it subconsciously?”

“Stiles!” The Sherriff spoke his name again, louder, slightly offended, as though a warning of some kind.

“I was a kid! I was a kid and I needed answers and all you gave me were lies!” Stiles barked, voice breaking with the pain of his father’s betrayal.

“I did what I thought was best!” His father retorted firmly in a bark of his own.

“You did what helped you to forget!” Stiles argued, sure at this point that anyone outside the office could hear their loud argument. “There’s no arrest report in this file. Did you even look for her killer?”

His father didn’t answer, simply stood staring at him in stoic silence that only infuriated Stiles more.

“You know I always felt bad for lying to you, for keeping such a huge secret from you when I knew the not knowing was driving you crazy.” Stiles admitted darkly, glancing briefly at Scott who was standing in the corner of the room looking uncomfortable. “But then I guess I learned from the best.”

He stormed past his father and out of the office, his mother’s file still clenched in his tightly balled fist. Precinct rules be damned, there was no way he was letting the file out of his sight. He needed answers. Hell, he probably needed years more of therapy! But mostly he just needed justice.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stiles!” Scott called, racing to catch up with him as he stormed out of the precinct and across the parking lot to his jeep. “Stiles maybe you should give your dad a break. He was just trying to protect you.”

“How can you defend him?” Stiles shouted, turning on Scott so quickly it made his friend recoil in alarm. “How can you have heard that, have known me all these years, and still see the supposed good in him? Some of us can’t forgive so easily! Some of us are human!”

Scott stood in silence, eyes fixed on the concrete pavement beneath their feet as though it held the secrets to the universe. His shoulders were hunched slightly forwards and his hands were tucked into his front pockets. He looked tense, guilty even.

Stiles watched him, brows knitting together in realization as he studied every miniscule movement and expression his friend was displaying.

“No.” Stiles shook his head, biting his lip and turning around in a frantic circle as he put the pieces together. “You knew?”

“Stiles. It wasn’t my secret to tell.” Scott rushed, regret clear in his voice as he rushed through his explanation. “I overheard your dad talking to my dad about what had happened. I promised my dad I wouldn’t say anything. I owed him that much.”

“And what about what you owed me, huh?” Stiles asked, the anger in his voice heavily overshadowed by the heart wrenching agony coursing through him. “Your dad left a long time ago. I’ve been here, your best friend, for years. What could you possibly owe your father that trumps that?”

Scott remained silent, unsure what to say to that. Stiles waited a moment, giving Scott a chance to answer, before he scoffed and climbed into his jeep, slamming the door so hard Scott winced at the sound.

He drove so fast out of the precinct’s lot that he left rubber burns on the pavement. He drove through town, speeding through the streets fast enough to trump any character in the fast and the furious franchise. He drove past the _Now Leaving Beacon Hills_ sign at the edge of town. He drove through the night and into the morning until he had no idea where he was and then he drove some more.

He didn’t know where he was heading. He just knew he couldn’t stay in Beacon Hills.

Not anymore.


	2. Reunions and Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment your thoughts and I'll update soon!

Derek sat at his desk in the police station. He was supposed to be filling out arrest reports for the Sherriff to authorize but in actuality he was distractedly sipping coffee and tapping his pen on the surface of his desk.

He didn’t know why he felt so antsy – it was unlike him – but for some reason his wolf was particularly restless and it was making it near impossible to concentrate.

“Parole transfer in five.” One of the other deputies called through the station.

She was young, fairly new to the force, and all too eager to get her hands dirty with open cases. The naiveté of being a rookie he supposed.

Sighing, he rose to his feet, stretching and making his way to the rear of the station where the prison transport would be dropping off the parolees and picking up those who had been convicted. Honestly, he hated prisoner transfers. The prisoners were always rude and generally just committed to making his life difficult. Last time he had actually been bitten by one of the transfers.

The bus pulled up with the parolees and he stood outside the doors, accepting the clipboard of transfer names from the guard that had accompanied the criminals on the bus.

“Careful. Transfer four’s a murderer.” The guard warned, signing the paperwork for the transfers and walking away from Derek to usher everyone off the bus.

Derek frowned, scanning the list of names for transfer number four. How in the hell had a convicted murderer been paroled anyways?

“Stilinski.” He read the name, the word catching in his throat in startled shock.

He glanced up from the clipboard just in time to see none other than Stiles file off the bus. Honestly, if Derek didn’t know it was him he wouldn’t have believed his own eyes. The once defenselessly lanky teen now looked perfectly at home in his own skin, dangerously confident even. His still lean frame was now far more toned with muscle, filling out his baseball t-shirt and making the fabric cling to his frame enticingly. The pale flesh Derek remembered was now inked with heavy black tattoos that spanned both arms and, from what Derek could see, extended up his neck. He was in dark wash jeans that hung low on his hips, showing his underwear slightly as he stepped down off the bus. Aside from his tattoos he also had a lip piercing and an eyebrow piercing that glinted in the afternoon sun. He was handcuffed, just like the other transfers, waiting processing for their release inside the station.

Derek blinked a few times, sure this Stiles was some sort of hallucination. When the man remained present, standing in line with the other transfers, Derek stoned himself, burying his shock so he could do his job.

“I’m officer Hale.” Derek cleared his throat, introducing himself to the group of transfers. He glanced at Stiles, noting the way his eyes narrowed in irritation at Derek’s presence. “I will be taking you inside where an officer will finish your release paperwork. After your paperwork is completed you will be given a detailed itinerary of check in times with your parole officer. If you break the terms of your release you will be sent back to jail. If you fail to check in with your parole officer as instructed you will be sent back to jail. If you are caught with illegal substances of any kind or engaging in criminal behavior you will be-“

“Sent back to jail.” Stiles answered in a dark mocking that made Derek frown.

“Transfer number four,” Derek spoke, marching to stand directly in front of Stiles who glared up at him with an unsettling sharpness in his amber eyes. “Looks like you’ll be my pet project for the duration of your parole.”

“Lucky you.” Stiles smirked venomously, his lip ring catching the sun as he did so and making Derek’s eyes flit to his mouth.

The rookie and a few other deputies helped lead the transfers inside, each taking their own case to complete paperwork for. Derek led Stiles to his desk, sitting him in an uncomfortable plastic chair used for interview purposes and pulling his record up on the computer.

“Larceny, assault, and two counts of murder.” Derek read aloud, lips pulling into a disapproving frown as he turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles smirked, an unsettling expression that came with a mocking air kiss directed at Derek that only deepened his frown.

“You did a nickel at a prison in NY before being transferred here for parole. Parole you technically shouldn’t have qualified for.” Derek continued, desperately trying to ignore the hypnotizing effect Stiles’ lip ring seemed to have on him.

“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.” Stiles drawled, slouching in his chair and rattling his cuffs. “How about removing the bracelets, I prefer piercings.”

“Clearly.” Derek replied flatly. “Your father should be back from a crime scene in a few minutes.”

“What does he have to do with removing the shackles?” Stiles frowned, once again rattling his cuffs for emphasis.

“Seeing as you should technically still be in jail I’d say he’s the one who pulled the strings to get you paroled. He’ll want to see you before your release.” Derek explained dryly, filling out Stiles’ paperwork while they waited.

“Hah.” Stiles scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “You think he didn’t know when I was getting transferred? He could’ve sent any deputy on the force to a crime scene. Especially since I’m assuming it’s a regular _human_ crime or you’d be there too. He doesn’t want to see me. The feeling’s mutual. Now make with the key so I can get out of here.”

Derek set his lips into a hard line, narrowing his eyes at Stiles and refusing to un-cuff him on principle alone.

“Aw what’s the matter? The big bad wolf on a leash?” Stiles drawled sarcastically with a smirk.

“No but according to your transfer papers you should be.” Derek rebutted, lifting Stiles’ pant leg to reveal an ankle tracker. “You’re confined to Beacon Hills.”

“Are we talking Beacon Hills the town or the county? Because I’m guessing the NY police didn’t provide a distinction.” Stiles chuckled knowingly.

Derek scowled, watching Stiles in irritated silence. He was harder. Still just as witty and chatty as before but now with a dark undercurrent that set Derek on edge, clashing harshly with his memory of the boy.

“What happened to you?” Derek asked, eyeing Stiles in search of an answer.

Stiles eyed him for a moment before an unsettling smile filled with bitter amusement spread across his face.

“They didn’t tell you?” Stiles chuckled darkly. “Tell me, when I left, did they suffer? Did they even try to look for me? Or did they make up another bullshit lie to cover that up as well?”

Derek said nothing. To be honest, he didn’t entirely understand parts of their conversation anymore.

“Look, I didn’t want to come back here in the first place. I’d literally rather have stayed in prison than come back to this godforsaken town. So make with the key already so I can start living as a reformed citizen or whatever.” Stiles insisted, thrusting his hands towards Derek to have the cuffs unlocked.

Derek hesitated but eventually huffed and unlocked Stiles’ cuffs. It’s not like he could keep him here without him committing another crime or violating parole. Plus, most of the other transfers had already been processed and released save for one man who appeared to have been put in holding and was currently barking like a lunatic.

Yep. He _definitely_ hated prisoner transfer days.

“I’d say it’s been fun _but_ ,” Stiles drawled the but in a condescending tone as he rose from the plastic chair and stretched, his shirt riding up to display the trail of hair disappearing into his low hanging pants.

“Stiles.” Derek called levelly as he began to head for the precinct’s exit. “Don’t forget to check in at the times outlined in your parole conditions.”

“Whatever you say Sourwolf.” Stiles called back with a short wave above his head, leaving without even bothering to turn around as he responded.

At least some things never changed. Derek sighed, slouching back into his chair in exhaustion and rubbing his eyes.

Scott would want to hear about this.


	3. Troublesome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working two jobs so my updating has been seriously limited of late but things are starting to slow down so expect more updates (in all ongoing stories) soon! Don't forget to comment, I always love to hear your thoughts and/or theories.   
> Enjoy!

“Wait, prison?” Lydia repeated, disbelief clear in her sharp eyes.

Derek nodded with a frown.

Since Scott had taken over as Alpha they’d had regular pack meetings. Usually they involved discussing how to eliminate the newest supernatural threat to Beacon Hills. It felt strange – wrong – to be discussing Stiles in the same way.

The pack had been understandably shocked when Derek had explained the situation. Stiles had been gone for seven years. Everyone had thought he’d simply gotten early admission to college – he was smart enough that it wasn’t a ridiculous notion and his father hadn’t seemed worried over Stiles’ disappearance. To discover he’d really been in prison for murder five of those seven years left the pack justifiably confused. Scott was the only one who wore an expression of guilt instead of disbelief and Derek eyed him, waiting for him to contribute some sort of explanation.

“Are you hiding something from us?” Derek asked, arching a brow at Scott whose eyes widened in alarm at the question.

“What makes you say-?” Scott began only to be interrupted by Derek.

“Stiles.” He replied levelly. “He said you knew.”

“I didn’t!” Scott protested shaking his head with a panicked expression. “Not about the murders and prison at least.”

“But about something else.” Lydia interjected, narrowing her eyes knowingly at Scott who cringed under the weight of her stare.

“I knew he didn’t leave for college.” Scott admitted with a sigh. “The day he disappeared he had a fight with his dad… and me. I thought he just needed space. Then it was like I blinked and a year had suddenly gone by and he was off the grid.”

“What was the fight about?” Derek asked.

“His mother.” Scott offered, continuing after the pack eyed him with pointed eyes demanding more. “He found out his mother was murdered.”

“By who?” Lydia asked in a sharp demand filled with shock.

“No one knows.” Scott admitted with a frown. “It’s a cold case.”

“Knowing him he went looking for the killer.” Derek mumbled with a deep exhale.

“Well if he found him maybe that explains the murder thing.” Kira offered, chiming in from her spot sitting with Scott.

“Either way. We should keep an eye on him.” Derek nodded, earning a nod of agreement from Scott.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles stood in the spray of the shower, letting the water wash over his face. Honestly, he wished the water were warmer, the spray hitting him with the icy bite that always accompanied cheap hotel pipes. Still, it felt great to be showering in the peace of his own room instead of with a dozen other inmates in a public bathroom. Prison definitely wasn’t known for its privacy.

He exhaled, some of the water sputtering away from his mouth in an uneven stream with the force of his breath. The taps were stiff as he turned them, screeching an uncomfortable high-pitched groan and threatening to snap off in his grip if he turned too violently. He dragged his hands across his face and through his hair, sloughing off the excess water once the heavy spray eased to an irritating drip from the faucet.

He stepped out of the shower, wiping the foggy condensation off the small bathroom mirror and assessing his face in the smeared reflection. He looked haggard, but he supposed that was to be expected after an extended stay in a New York prison. There were certainly no day-spas in jail, that was for sure. He flicked his tongue across his lip ring, a nervous tick he’d picked up since getting the piercing all those years ago.

A definite creak sounded in the hotel room just beyond the closed bathroom door and Stiles froze, eyes narrowing in agitated suspicion. He grabbed the towel hanging messily on the dirty towel-rack and wrapped it around his waist, the dingy fabric hanging low on his hips. The gun he’d left resting on the edge of the tiny porcelain sink was next and he cocked it, holding it at the ready as he slowly moved towards the bathroom door to find the source of the noise.

He exhaled, counting to three in his head before violently throwing the bathroom door open with a deafening bang and raising his gun to fire at whatever intruder waited for him on the other side. He was met with a startled yelp from Liam and the barrel of Derek’s gun as the wolf reflexively pulled his sidearm in response to Stiles’ weapon.

“Put it down.” Derek ordered in a demanding growl, gesturing to Stiles’ gun with his own.

“You first.” Stiles retorted in an equally threatening tone.

A heavy silence settled over them and what felt like an eternity passed in tense mistrust before Liam suddenly broke the stress-filled showdown.

“Stiles!” He exclaimed in far too familiar a tone for Stiles’ liking before taking a few rushed steps towards Stiles with arms opened for a hug.

“Another step and I _will_ shoot you.” Stiles promised with a frown, words flecked with sarcasm but mostly thick with irritation as he clicked the safety of his gun off for emphasis.

Liam froze, extending his hands in mock surrender but looking mostly unfazed by Stiles’ threat. Not that Stiles was surprised – after all, regular bullets couldn’t do much to hurt a werewolf.

A few seconds passed before Stiles sighed and lowered his gun with a roll of his eyes, clicking the safety back on before striding over to his clothes in a messy pile on the foot of the bed.

“What do you want?” Stiles asked, dropping his towel to the floor unashamedly and pulling on a pair of jeans without so much as a glance at Liam or Derek.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek watched as Stiles nonchalantly pulled on a pair of jeans, clearly unconcerned with having flashed them without warning. He glanced at Liam, trying to distract his mind from the fact that Stiles had pulled on pants without underwear and the barrage of unwelcome fantasies that accompanied that fact.

“This isn’t the address listed on your release forms.” Derek scowled, watching as Stiles kicked the wet towel now on the dirty hotel floor with a frown before using his dry shirt as a makeshift towel to dry his dripping hair.

“Well seeing as the address on the forms is my father’s house, and we haven’t spoken in seven years I’m not about to stay there.” Stiles rolled his eyes before fixing them on Derek.

“Your parole was conditional on you staying in a residence with direct police supervision.” Derek frowned.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Stiles huffed with lips pursed in annoyance. “But seeing as you’re here without reason I’d say my ‘residence’ comes with direct supervision.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?” Derek scowled, eyes flitting to Stiles’ lip ring as his lips pursed. That damn piece of metal was a menace to his psyche.

“It’s important to have goals.” Stiles smirked, an expression that fully captured just how much Stiles loved to push his buttons.

“You’re violating your parole.” Derek rumbled, crossing his arms disapprovingly before glancing around the room he wasn’t supposed to be living in and frowning at the gun he definitely wasn’t supposed to have in his possession.

“You going to arrest me officer?” Stiles chuckled darkly, extending his wrists mockingly to Derek as if offering them for cuffs.

Derek could see Liam glancing between them uncomfortably from the corner of his eye but couldn’t bring himself to rise above Stiles’ jab. He always had known how to bring out the worst in him.

“I should.” Derek scowled challengingly.

“Well?” Stiles smirked, amusement dancing in his eyes as he took a step closer to Derek, wrists first, until there was less than a foot between them.

Derek kept his face carefully level, cursing that goddamn lip ring and the way it taunted him with Stiles’ every expression.

“You’re a murderer.” Derek spoke icily, as if needing to remind himself as his eyes remained focused on Stiles’ lips.

Derek watched as his lips pulled down into a deep frown, his bottom lip pulling tightly against the metal ring.

“You want a confession go to church.” Stiles replied venomously, dropping his arms to his sides.

“If he needs police supervision why doesn’t he stay with you?” Liam cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable as he nodded to Derek.

Derek wanted to smack him. It was bad enough seeing Stiles’ tattooed body and highly hypnotizing lip ring for a few short minutes while checking in. It was another thing entirely to have to see him every day, morning, noon and night, under the same roof. Seeing him wet from having just showered. Seeing his sleeping face. Having him slowly smell more like Derek as their scents mingled. Derek frowned, certain he would go insane.

“Stay with my dad’s lapdog?” Stiles scoffed, breaking Derek from his distracted thoughts and making his blood boil in offended anger. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s either that or prison.” Derek shot back before his brain could stop his mouth.

Stiles eyed him, his glare a mixture of surprise and fury before he clicked his tongue and responded, “Fine. But try anything and I’ll unload a clip of wolfsbane bullets into your ass.”

Derek exhaled doing his best to remain calm in the face of Stiles’ mouthy retorts. He forced his mouth into a smile, closing the gap between them in a single motion and wrapping his arms around Stiles waist.

“One more thing.” Derek whispered in his ear, sure Liam could hear him but too annoyed to care.

He slid his hands around to Stiles’ back, his smile becoming more of a haughty smirk as Stiles’ face contorted into confused lust. His hand found the gun easily and by the time Stiles’ brain caught up with Derek’s movement the weapon was freed from the back waistband of Stiles’ jeans and safely in Derek’s grip.

“I’m confiscating this.” Derek smirked, pulling away from Stiles with a victorious, low chuckle.

Stiles swore but made no move to reclaim the gun. His expression was endlessly amusing, a combination of anger, lingering lust, and inexplicable respect that Derek hadn’t thought possible to exist simultaneously on someone’s face. Derek reveled in his small victory, sure that Stiles would find a way of paying him back tenfold for his trick – he’d always been troublesome like that.


	4. Missing

Derek sat on a stool in his kitchen, elbows firmly planted on the countertop of the large island as he sipped coffee with a scowl. He was so acutely aware of Stiles in his house – upstairs – it was driving him crazy.

He could hear him grunting, a low guttural sound every few seconds in a steady rhythm and it was filling his head with filthy images he couldn’t get rid of. His wolf was practically vibrating inside him at the sound and that in itself was far more concerning than his dirty daydreaming. No matter how hard he tried to tune out the sound his enhanced hearing seemed to zone in on it instinctively.

There was no escape.

He took another sip of his coffee as the sound continued. Even though it wasn’t that loud it felt deafening and after a few more seconds of listening Derek slammed his coffee mug down on the counter and stormed upstairs.

“Shut up!” Derek demanded in frustration, throwing open the door to Stiles’ room – or rather his guest room – without bothering to knock.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to find on the other side of the door, but it definitely wasn’t what he was staring at. Stiles was hanging upside down from a bar he’d apparently drilled into the ceiling without permission, doing hanging sit ups and grunting with each one.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance, clearly not pleased with Derek’s intrusion into his workout, but dropped down from the bar regardless.

“I was done anyway.” Stiles grumbled once he was upright and on his feet.

“What are you doing?” Derek knew it was a stupid question – the answer was obvious for anyone with eyes – but he just couldn’t wrap his head around the skinny Stiles he once knew doing such an intense workout.

“Baking cookies.” Stiles replied in a completely serious tone, the only indication of sarcasm his cocked brow that silently implied Derek was an idiot.

Derek frowned but kept quiet, memorizing the tattoos covering Stiles’ arms and torso. Playing cards, skulls, cursive script, roses, hell he could even see an eagle in the overlapping collage of black and white images that seemed to mesh together into one cohesive picture on Stiles’ pale flesh.

“Take a picture.” Stiles grumbled darkly, narrowing his eyes at Derek as if daring him to keep staring without permission.

Derek scowled back for a few seconds before brazenly pulling out his cell and snapping a photo as instructed. The flabbergasted look on Stiles’ face was completely worth the effort.

“Hilarious.” Stiles rolled his eyes, crossing his arms defiantly as he glared at Derek. “Delete it.”

“No. It’s mine.” Derek retorted flatly, not sure why he was being contrary simply for the sake of being contrary.

Stiles made a stifled grunt of incredulity before lunging at Derek to grab the cell by force. A few seconds later the phone was knocked to the floor in the scuffle and Stiles was pinned against the wall by Derek.

They both stilled for a moment, breathing heavily and startled by their suddenly intimate proximity. Unable to help himself when faced with the all too familiar sensation of restraining Stiles, Derek leaned in.

Stiles’ eyes widened in shocked realization at what Derek was about to do and, mere seconds before their lips touched, he turned his head, refusing Derek the kiss.

Derek pulled back a little, assessing Stiles’ unsettled expression but keeping him securely pinned between the wall and his body. He felt a strange combination of frustrated and wounded at the rejection. Before he could comment or move, however, Stiles had broken free of his grip and was throwing on a baggy t-shirt.

“I’m going out.” Stiles called, rushing from the room before Derek could think to stop him and leaving the cell phone forgotten on the floor and Derek standing silent in an empty house.

 

* * *

 

Stiles cursed himself and Beacon Hills and just about everything he could think of as he stormed down the street. He couldn’t let himself fall for Derek – again. Sure he’d had a crush on him in the past, before he’d learned the truth and been drawn into an overly complex web of deception he still hadn’t fully unraveled. But that didn’t mean he wanted to fall back into old patterns just because he was forcibly confined to Beacon Hills.

He had a plan. A plan that didn’t involve falling into bed with broody werewolves who most certainly would try and stop him. No matter how muscular and stoic he was or how perfectly expressive his eyebrows may be.

He was so fucked.

He pushed Derek from his mind, focusing instead on winding his way through the familiar streets of his hometown to his destination. He needed to figure out how the Beacon Hills Sherriff’s Department was tied to his mother’s death. And in order to do that he needed to get in contact with an old friend.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek lay in bed, wide awake and hating every second of it. Stiles had been gone for hours with no word and he was beginning to get worried. Whether as a police officer or a jealous man Derek refused to ponder. Either way, Stiles shouldn’t have been out all night without checking in – he was on parole for god sake!

Sure he could’ve technically checked Stiles’ location via the ankle monitor he was wearing but that seemed like something a crazy obsessive would do. Or a cop. God Derek hated living with Stiles, the lines between personal and professional boundaries were becoming far too blurred for his comfort.

The front door clicked open and Derek froze, snapping out of his thoughts and training his hearing on the sound. He listened as Stiles closed the door and carefully crept up the stairs, disappearing into the guest room and closing the door before collapsing onto the bed. Derek frowned, hearing quite clearly the familiar sound of whining bed springs as Stiles lay down and, after a few minutes, was certain Stiles had fallen asleep.

He lay awake for a few more minutes, warring with whether or not to wake Stiles up and demand an explanation. The level exhales of Stiles’ breathing from the other room convinced him, albeit reluctantly, to wait until morning and he found himself drifting asleep to thoughts of Stiles.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek had overslept. Not that he was surprised. Staying up until four-thirty in the morning had a tendency to throw off his schedule. Still, he was pissed that he had allowed himself to deviate from his plan of confronting Stiles first thing in the morning.

Stretching, he climbed out of bed and sauntered downstairs like a zombie in search of coffee. He didn’t have to be at the station until the afternoon, which left plenty of time to berate Stiles for his most recent parole violation.

He put the coffee grinds into the machine and turned it on, turning to retrieve milk from the fridge while it brewed and immediately cursing at what he found. Stuck to the front of the fridge was a note, scrawled in barely legible writing that was unmistakably Stiles’.

_Going out. Consider this my check in._

Derek tore the paper violently off the fridge, sending the magnet holding it in place skidding across the kitchen floor. He crumpled the note into a tiny ball and threw the fridge open so hard he was surprised the door didn’t break off in his hand.

Was Stiles intentionally trying to get arrested or was he simply an idiot? No, knowing him the entire situation was some sort of twisted game and his every move was calculated. Honestly, everything about Stiles was putting him on edge. Every minute of his life had become filled with a combination of burning anger and raw animal attraction that made it hard to treat Stiles like just another parolee.

The doorbell rang, breaking him from his thoughts and making him realize he’d been standing with the fridge open for a solid two minutes. With a sigh he pulled out the milk and set it on the counter, waiting for whoever was at the door to come in. If it was someone from the pack they would just let themselves in and, frankly, if it was anyone else he had no interest to chat at the moment.

After a few seconds the front door opened and Liam, Scott and Mason strolled in, bringing with them a heated conversation Derek didn’t care to pay attention to. Derek fixed them with an annoyed glower and they fell into silence, glancing at one another as if silently debating who should speak.

“What is it?” Derek huffed, taking a sip of his much needed coffee and throwing Stiles’ note in the trash.

“Mason saw something last night.” Scott replied.

“And?” Derek arched a brow, wondering where this was going. He really couldn’t handle a supernatural emergency in the midst of everything else.

“Mason.” Scott prompted, nodding at the nervous looking human with a reassuring smile.

“I was out late last night tracking the phases of the moon for some research I’ve been doing about werewolf biology and transformative genetics.” Mason reeled off, making Derek frown at the useless information he was being given. “And I saw a some sort of deal go down in the park.”

“Do I look like a cop to you?” Derek growled, narrowing his eyes.

Mason fixed him with a confused expression and Liam and Scott raised their brows in questioning.

Realizing what he’d said, Derek sighed and took another sip of his coffee before mumbling, “I’m off duty.”

“Right.” Mason cleared his throat awkwardly before pressing on with his explanation. “Well the one guy gave the other some sort of package and they talked for a few minutes before going separate ways.”

“This doesn’t sound like something I need to worry about.” Derek spoke, underlying questioning clear in his statement.

“Tell him the description of the men.” Liam prompted Mason, an urgency in his voice Derek didn’t understand.

“One was Latino, dark hair, goatee and mustache with a neck tattoo.” Mason offered, glancing at Liam as if silently accusing him of insanity. “The other was pale, lean, brown hair, sleeve and neck tattoos, and a couple piercings.”

“Stiles.” Derek growled the word as though it tasted vile, lips pursing in anger.

“Where is he?” Scott frowned, glancing around the kitchen like Stiles would somehow materialize among them.

“I’m not sure.” Derek admitted with a deep exhale, crossing his arms 


	5. Reputations Earned

Stiles walked into the coffee shop in desperate need of caffeine. After having had under four hours of sleep, he’d forced himself to get out of bed at a frankly ungodly hour simply to avoid Derek. He knew their next encounter would be filled with a long-winded scolding for having once again violated parole and he just didn’t have time to sit through something so tedious.

He grumbled his order to the overly perky barista and within moments was handed a steaming cup of coffee. Stiles grabbed the cup as if it were a lifeline, taking a large sip of the hot, heavenly drink without so much as an acknowledgement to the girl behind the counter.

The barista seemed only mildly uncomfortable with Stiles’ gruff attitude and tattoo-covered body, quickly moving to the next customer as if needing an escape from him.

He took another large swig of his drink and sauntered out of the shop, having no interest in becoming a spectacle for the usual customers.

The morning air outside was brisk and he quickly found himself regretting leaving the house in a loose tank instead of a hoodie. Not only did the tank clearly display his tattoos to the conservative, and more than a little judgmental locals, it also left him with Goosebumps coating most of his skin.

He’d barely made it a block when none other than Lydia stormed up to him with a sharp glare plastered on her face.

“Great.” Stiles muttered darkly, frowning as he took another sip and continued to walk faster. She didn’t give up.

“Where have you been?” Lydia demanded in a shrill snap, stepping in front of him to bar his path.

“If you really don’t know I’d say you’ve lost your touch.” Stiles retorted in bitter amusement. “But if it means you getting out of my way, prison.”

“Cute.” She scoffed, her glare becoming even more venomous. “But I meant last night.”

“Derek’s.” Stiles replied, narrowing his eyes as if daring her to contest him.

“We both know that isn’t true.” Lydia huffed, crossing her arms.

“No we don’t.” Stiles shrugged dismissively, moving to brush past her by force if need be.

“Oh yes we do.” A deep voice growled angrily behind him.

Derek.

Without warning Stiles was heaved off the sidewalk and tossed over Derek’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He squawked in alarm, desperately trying to keep hold of his coffee as he was jostled around.

“Bastard!” Stiles bit as the hot liquid splashed over his hand before he could steady the cup.

“Do you want to be arrested?” Derek growled, carrying him away like he weighed nothing at all.

“No _ociffer_. I’m a good boy.” Stiles retorted in a high pitched mocking tone, intentionally mispronouncing the word officer.

Derek growled, a low guttural sound from deep in his chest, and jumped slightly, intentionally jostling Stiles once more.

“Do you mind?” Stiles bit angrily, angling his cup so the next spill would be down Derek’s back.

“Not at all.” Derek retorted icily.

Before Stiles could retort Derek had dropped him into the trunk of his police cruiser. Miraculously, Stiles managed to keep his coffee level, barely spilling any as he fell roughly into the small space. The miracle proved in vain, however, when Derek grabbed the coffee cup and tossed it away onto the sidewalk, slamming the trunk on Stiles’ angry protests so the muffled sound fell on all but deaf ears.

Stiles could feel the car roar to life, the trunk vibrating with the sudden force of the exhaust surging alive.

“Derek!” Stiles shouted, furiously kicking the side of the trunk in a desperate attempt to get his attention. “Let me out!”

The only response he received was the jarring motion of the car jerking forward into drive, sending him slamming against the back of the trunk at the force. Stiles swore, sure Derek had done that on purpose. The motion left him with a sore shoulder and a bare arm with rug burn thanks to the uncomfortable, prickly bristles of the car’s upholstery.

“I know my rights, Sourwolf!” Stiles barked, continuing to pound on the trunk as the cruiser sped through the streets.

Stiles knew Derek could hear him, the car’s sirens screaming to life with shrill, deafening volume that Stiles couldn’t possibly hope to compete with.

He huffed, resigning himself to being ignored and glancing around the cramped space in search of anything useful. The trunk was empty, not even a candy bar wrapper littering the space that looked as if it were cleaned on a regular basis.

The car moved quickly, Stiles bracing himself several times as they took corners without slowing down. Within minutes the car was stopped, the engine cutting and Derek’s door slamming as the siren’s fell into silence. He supposed a short ride was to be expected given the police sirens coercing everyone out of the way.

The trunk popped open and Stiles blinked, trying to get his bearings as his eyes adjusted to the sudden flood of light into the otherwise pitch-black space.

“Asshole.” Stiles cursed as Derek hauled him out of the trunk, carrying him roughly as he stumbled slightly in his disorientation.

His eyes finally adjusted from the blurred spots of colours dancing through his vision, opening to see the Hale house just in time for Derek to throw open the front door with a bang. Stiles frowned, sure when the door was closed there were be a doorknob shaped hole in the drywall where the door had struck.

Derek didn’t bother to prove him right, leaving the door open and carrying him straight into the house without a pause or word of explanation. He opened the door to the basement, hauling him down the flight of stairs into what Stiles could only describe as a dungeon.

“Is this where you kill me?” Stiles scoffed sarcastically, voice dripping with venomous irritation.

“Don’t tempt me.” Derek growled in response, walking into an oversized metal cage on the far wall of the room and dumping Stiles onto an uncomfortable chair.

The chair slid across the floor slightly at the force, a cringe worthy screech echoing through the room as the legs grated across the concrete. Stiles winced at the sound, Derek quickly tying him to the chair with a rope that frankly chafed and was unnecessary given the fact he was already inside a cage. When Derek was done he stepped out of the cage, shutting the door and locking him inside with an audible click before standing to glare at him with arms folded disapprovingly across his chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Stiles frowned flatly.

Derek said nothing, lips set in a thin line of cold annoyance as he maintained his heavy glower.

“You know when I envisioned you tying me up, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” Stiles spoke, smirking as Derek’s brow twitched ever so slightly at his comment, as if imagining other situations involving Stiles and rope.

Stiles’ eyes darted to the stairs, hearing the ever so faint clicking of Lydia’s heels as she approached the descent to the basement. Clearly Derek heard her too as his eyes darted to the staircase with stony anticipation.

“Stiles.” A familiar and completely unwanted voice called, stepping into the basement, Lydia only a few steps behind. Stiles froze, cursing Lydia’s heels for lulling him into a false sense of ease as he watched Liam saunter into the room behind her.

Scott stared at him for a moment, eyes darting between Stiles and Derek, a look of concern flashing across his puppy dog features at Stiles’ excessive bindings.

“Stiles.” Scott repeated after a moment of silence in which he fixed Derek with a disapproving frown.

Stiles’ jaw flexed, clenching his teeth together to resist the long list of expletives desperately trying to break through his resolve.

“You can’t ignore me forever.” Scott sighed after another moment of silence.

Stiles focused on his breathing, working to keep it level and calm as he fought back the urge to kill. Somehow he was grateful for the ropes and the cage, the bindings the only things keeping him from attacking his ex-best-friend with unrestrained violence.

“I know I should have told you about your mom.” Scott continued, making Stiles’ narrowed eyes flit from Scott’s shoes to his face with murderous fury. “I should have been honest and helped you to –“

Stiles snarled, jerking against the ropes binding him to the chair as if trying to break free as he cut Scott off.

“I need alcohol to have this conversation and, frankly, I haven’t even had my first coffee.” Stiles bit venomously, face twisting into dark, furious rage. “So how about you shut up before I do something you’ll regret.”

“You’re tied to a chair.” Liam chimed in, his voice light and matter-of-fact and completely out of place in the tense atmosphere.

Stiles’ dark glower flit to the young werewolf, furious rage melting into an unsettling icy calm, the only hint of anger left the white hot fury dancing in his amber eyes.

Stiles jerked his arm against the tight hold of the rope, maintaining eye contact with Liam as an audible cracking pop sounded through the otherwise silent basement. His face never faltered despite the pain, his rage far outweighing his physical discomfort. Liam’s face contorted into startled disgust that Stiles couldn’t help but smirk darkly at, infinitely amused by the wolf’s revulsion.

He shirked the ropes off, now loose around his body thanks to his dislocated shoulder. Once the ropes were on the floor, he stood up from the chair, rolling his shoulder and clenching his jaw as it popped back in with a sharp slice of pain.

“And now I’m not.” Stiles rebutted, rolling his shoulder a few more times to get the kinks out as he glared harshly at Liam and Scott.

“Stiles.” Scott tried again, apprehension in his voice as he took a step towards the cage Stiles was locked in until he was almost touching the bars. “Let us help you.”

Stiles didn’t speak, his expression remaining blank as he sauntered up to the bars to stand directly in front of Scott. He opened his mouth as if to speak, instead suddenly inhaling and spitting harshly at Scott through the bars, eyes narrowing in fury mingled with undeniable amusement as Scott staggered back to wipe his face.

Derek growled and stepped forward, primed to berate Stiles with harsh authority before a shrill ringing cut through his unspoken words and silenced the room.

Stiles dug in his pocket, pulling out a cellphone and glancing at the screen flashing with an unsaved number. He answered, pressing the phone against his ear as he maintained his harsh glare with Derek.

“Tonight. Ten-thirty.” The male voice instructed levelly.

Stiles knew everyone present could hear the words being spoken – there was no privacy when it came to supernatural senses, something he’d long since come to terms with in his teenage adolescence.

He pulled the cell away from his ear, checking the time on the corner of the screen before raising it once more to speak. “I’ll be there.”

Derek growled again, as if a dark laugh that silently informed Stiles otherwise.

“I just have some business to finish first.” Stiles continued, smirking defiantly at Derek in response to the sound.

“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” The voice pressed in harsh warning.

“He knows me better than that.” Stiles returned.

“Hence the warning.” The voice sighed through the phone.

Stiles chuckled amusedly before hanging up without another word, returning his full attention to the pack.

He glanced around, eyes tracing the lines of the cage as if calculating its dimensions.

“I have places to be.” Stiles spoke, eyes rolling back from the bars to Derek with a slight smirk.

Derek scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest in adamant refusal.

“Last time I checked, unlawful imprisonment wasn’t a great career move for an officer of the law.” Stiles folded his own arms in response. “So now that I’ve proven I get reception in your dungeon, how about you let me out before I call the police and you have to explain a logical reason why you have a cage in your basement.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed but Stiles could see the concern through the angry front.

“And might I remind you _werewolves_ _losing control_ is not an acceptable explanation.” Stiles continued, waving his cell phone threateningly in front of his face. “And while BDSM might be a valid explanation, I don’t know if you want to wear that reputation alongside your badge.”

“Stiles.” Scott spoke, firm and with the authority of an Alpha.

Stiles rolled his eyes, ignoring Scott’s unspoken command for obedience and returning his attention to Derek.


	6. More than Human

Derek moved to unlock the cage with a deep scowl on his already broody features. Stiles couldn’t help the smug smirk on his face as he watched Derek unlock the door and reluctantly pull it open. Stiles made no move to step forwards once the door was opened and Derek’s scowl only deepened at Stiles’ infuriating stubbornness.

Stiles raised his brows slightly, smirking mockingly as he waved the cellphone again from his place inside the bars. He genuinely thought he could see the vein in Derek’s neck ready to burst under the rage pulsing just beneath the wolf’s surface.

“Derek.” Lydia warned, as if sensing something she didn’t quite understand but didn’t care to explore.

Stiles grin widened, silently mouthing the word “ _ooh_ ” to Derek in mocking amusement at the notion he would heel at Lydia’s instruction. On a level only Stiles was capable of angering Derek, he took the bait.

With an angry growl he stepped into the cage to grab the phone from Stiles hand, still waving tauntingly at eye-level. Stiles didn’t move, allowing Derek close enough to grab for the phone before even changing expressions from his provocative grin.

In a blur that seemed to astound everyone, Derek was on the floor and Stiles was stepping over him to leave the confines of the cell.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the wolves to snap from their frozen alarm before rushing at Stiles with fangs bared and supernaturally glowing eyes.

Scott went down quickly, partly due to his reluctance to attack someone he considered a friend and partly due to Stiles complete and overwhelming murderous rage when faced him. Within a matter of moments he was unconscious inside the cage next to a groaning Derek struggling and failing to rise to his feet.

Liam was next, taking slightly more coaxing before being flung inside the cage by a force impossible for a human. Stiles raised his palms towards the wolf, motioning to push him despite being too far away to physically touch him using such a method. Liam flew backward at the movement, slamming against the rear bars of the cage before slumping to the ground in obvious pain coupled with a similar confused expression to the one Derek was wearing.

“I think you need a time out.” Stiles sniped, slamming the cell door closed on them and grinning at the resounding click of the lock that echoed through the room.

He cocked his head at Derek who was staring at him in confused irritation, watching at the man’s eyes suddenly darted behind Stiles.

Stiles whirred around, grabbing the gun stashed in the back waistband of his jeans and pointing it at Lydia’s face, mouth open and primed for a deafening scream. It hadn’t taken him long to replace the gun Derek had confiscated and now he was glad he had.

“Don’t even think about it.” Stiles bit harshly, watching as she closed her mouth with furiously narrowed eyes.

“I’m just going to let them out when you’re gone.” Lydia chirped angrily.

“Saves me having to come back and do it.” Stiles shrugged, uncaring. “I’ll be long gone by then.”

“What happened to you?” Lydia demanded in dark questioning.

“A lot.” Stiles narrowed his eyes in response.

He kept the gun pointed at her as he backed towards the stairs, climbing them slowly so as to ensure no one tried anything in the haste of his escape. Just before disappearing he blew one last mockingly playful kiss at the imprisoned Derek and grinned at the roar that followed him out of the house.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hurry up.” Derek growled in frustration, watching as Lydia fiddled with the key to open the cage door.

Once inside he couldn’t put his hand through the bars to open it himself, the metal reinforced with mountain ash to keep wolves inside on full moons.

“Stop complaining or I’ll leave you in there.” Lydia sniped back in irritation. “Besides, Scott’s still unconscious.”

“I’m going after him alone.” Derek replied darkly.

“What?” Liam cut in before Lydia had a chance to protest. “That’s crazy! Did you see what he did? He’s not human!”

“He’s still Stiles.” Derek grumbled, though his face looked just as unconvinced and angry as the rest.

“Maybe.” Lydia offered, pulling the door open to allow them to step out, Liam carrying a still unconscious Scott. “But not the one you remember.”

“Either way,” Derek frowned, face stiff with conviction. “He’s my responsibility. I either send him back to jail or make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“You should wait for Scott.” Lydia sighed, knowing the warning would go unheeded.

“Cause that worked so well last time.” Derek frowned, glancing at the unconscious Scott and cage they’d been locked in. “He seems to hate me the least. It’ll be easier to handle him alone.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles strode up the steps to the small townhome, hood up and hands stuffed in his pockets as he nodded at the man who opened the door before even had a chance to knock.

“You’re late.” The man sighed with a disapproving frown.

Stiles simply shrugged unapologetically, as if silently saying ‘ _inevitable’_ before the man turned to lead Stiles further into the house.

He stopped in front of an innocuous door, knocking before opening it to usher Stiles inside.

“Karla.” Stiles greeted the woman sitting in an armchair, strumming her fingers in annoyed urgency.

She pursed her lips in disapproving irritation at him, her dark brown eyes narrowing as she spoke “You’re late” in belligerent greeting.

Stiles shrugged again and pulled his hood off as Karla sighed at him in clear exhaustion.

“I don’t know what my brother sees in you.” She shook her head, gesturing for him to take a seat on the sofa across from her.

Stiles did as instructed and the muscly man who’d led him inside closed the door to leave them alone – undoubtedly standing guard just on the other size of flimsy barrier.

Karla was thin with dark skin and a head of thick justice braids hanging down her back.

“Let’s get this over with.” She instructed, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw as her brows knitted together in concentration.

When her eyes snapped open they were bright gold instead of dark brown and narrowed in harsh anger.

“You’re late.” She spoke, her voice echoing and hollow instead of rich and playful like usual.

“Would everyone quit telling me that?” Stiles sighed, slouching back into the couch as her golden eyes rolled at him.

“Maybe if you were on time.” She offered amusedly.

“How are you?” Stiles asked, voice suddenly turning serious. “How’s prison.”

“The same as ever.” She responded in her hollow tone. “Boring now that you’re gone.”

“Not by choice.” Stiles frowned, kicking at the ankle monitor on his leg with clean annoyance.

“How’s your vendetta?” She asked.

“Same as ever.” Stiles repeated her words flatly. “Any new information?”

“Nothing helpful.” She replied.

“Well it’s a little harder than you think to infiltrate a Sherriff’s department.” Stiles frowned.

“It’s not exactly easy to gather information while you’re in prison, either.” She replied flatly.

“You found out the station was a dead drop.” Stiles returned, putting his feet up on the coffee table between them.

“Don’t do that.” She frowned, swatting at his feet. “My sister will kill you.”

“I’ve survived this long.” Stiles huffed, begrudgingly putting his feet back on the floor.

“Barely.” She scoffed with a chuckle.

“Hey which one of us managed to get out of that hell-hole?” Stiles smirked back, playing with his lip ring as he did so.

“Like you said, not by choice.” She smirked in response.

Stiles exhaled deeply, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and speak to her more quietly.

“If the station really is being used to launder money and weapons then there has to be a man on the inside.” Stiles frowned, images of his father flashing through his mind.

“And that man is probably the one who sent me here.” She bit harshly. “So find him and kill him.”

“I’ll come back for you.” Stiles promised as her eyes darted to something Stiles couldn’t see.

“Someone’s here.” She rushed and in an instant her eyes had faded back to a dark brown and she was blinking as if stumbling out of a fog.

“Karla.” Stiles greeted once more, leaning back into the couch.

Her eyes fixed on him for a moment before falling down to the coffee table with a deep scowl.

“You put your feet on my table didn’t you?” She snipped.

“Would I do that?” Stiles returned in exaggerated hurt.

“Yes.” She replied flatly.

“Thanks for doing this.” Stiles changed the subject before she could press the issue.

“If it gets him out of prison I’d do anything.” She returned in dark insistence.

“I’ll get him out.” Stiles promised with a nod.

“You better.” She returned. “I don’t want to be my brother’s medium forever.”

They chatted idly for a few more minutes before she opened the door and instructed her bodyguard escort him out. He thanked her again and promised to visit soon, to which she rolled her eyes but made no protest.

He stepped back outside into the dim light of the street lamps, pulling his hood back up to shroud his face and heading for the nearest hotel.


	7. Worse Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! The next chapter is already typed as well so will be uploading it very shortly!  
> Enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

Stiles lay on the crappy motel bed, sprawled on his back staring up at the peeling ceiling. He always felt emotionally exhausted after speaking with Karla and her brother – a mixture of guilt and anger that left him feeling numb and unsettled.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t for the life of him fall asleep. His bed was lumpy and uncomfortable, springs digging into his spine and reminding him of all those years in lock-up.

He wanted to cry, or maybe scream, he couldn’t quite decide which.

A loud fist pounded on the motel room door, the force vibrating through the thin walls and making Stiles sigh. He knew who it was on the other side, he wasn’t stupid.

“It’s open.” He called monotonously, not even bothering to tear his gaze away from the ceiling.

The door swung open, banging against the wall so hard Stiles suspected there would be a dent once it was closed again.

“You here to put me back in werewolf jail?” Stiles asked, still not bothering to glance at Derek now that he was in the room.

“How about real jail.” Derek growled, standing at the edge of the bed to hover over Stiles with an angry glower.

“Your version of prison is a joke.” Stiles scoffed darkly.

“Compared to what?” Derek frowned, eyeing Stiles suspiciously, mildly surprised he was saying anything with real substance for the first time since returning to Beacon Hills.

Stiles said nothing, finally tearing his gaze away from the ceiling to glare harshly at Derek, as if realizing he had been speaking aloud for the first time since Derek’s arrival.

“You can’t be here.” Derek huffed, crossing his arms authoritatively.

“Yet here I am.” Stiles returned sarcastically.

“You need direct police supervision.” Derek continued, clearly trying to remain calm in the face of Stiles’ infuriating attitude. “Let’s go.”

“No.” Stiles refused flatly.

“No?” Derek arched an expressive brow with a deep scowl.

“No.” Stiles repeated, returning his eyes defiantly to the ceiling.

Derek grabbed Stiles, hauling him off the bed and over his shoulder in one fluid motion.

“Put me down!” Stiles demanded venomously, smashing his fist into Derek’s lower back and earning nothing but a grunt of annoyance in return.

Derek closed the motel room door behind them as they left, ignoring the large hole he’d created in the wall when he burst into the room. Stiles struggled on his shoulder, hitting his back and kicking his feet and generally squirming and making it impossible to keep a solid grip on his body.

“Hold still.” Derek demanded, jumping slightly to readjust his grasp.

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles barked, thumping his fists against Derek’s back once more.

“It’s my job.” Derek growled.

“Bullshit it’s your job to make me live with you and lock me in a werewolf cage!” Stiles snapped.

“It’s my job to make sure you make good choices.” Derek bit back harshly, clearly nearing the end of his patience.

“My choices are fine!” Stiles snapped defensively, thrashing in Derek’s hold once more.

“Your choices landed you in jail and most recently had you meet up with a criminal.” Derek scoffed dismissively.

“No, other peoples choices landed me in jail and then my abilities moved me to an underground facility you can’t even begin to imagine.” Stiles barked venomously, punching Derek’s back furiously.

Derek stopped a few feet away from his Camaro, dropping Stiles back onto his feet but keeping a solid hold on his arm as he waited for a better explanation.

“I went to jail when I started poking too deep into my mother’s case and discovered police corruption was involved.” Stiles spat in bitter fury. “Apparently cops don’t take too kindly to having their illegal dealings exposed.”

“So you didn’t commit murder.” Derek pondered, more of a hopeful statement than a genuine question.

“Oh no I did.” Stiles replied flatly, unremorsefully. “Just not before I got arrested.”

“I don’t understand.” Derek frowned, brows knitting together in expressive confusion.

“It’s a long story.” Stiles huffed darkly, refusing to say anything more.

Derek let the words hang between them for a moment, as if assessing how far he should press the issue in an open parking lot where anyone could overhear.

“So what’s your plan once you reach the final chapter?” He finally asked with a frown.

“If you’re expecting me to say I’ll leave my mom’s murderer alive you should know I wont.” Stiles replied menacingly.

“Even if he’s a cop.” Derek pressed, frown only deepening.

“There are worse places to end up than prison.” Stiles returned dismissively. “Trust me.”

Derek frowned, eyeing Stiles curiously for a moment before opening the passenger door to his Camaro as if a silent instruction for him to climb inside.

“Nothing has changed.” Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek, eyeing the opened door as if offended by it.

“You’re right.” Derek agreed, still standing in silent insistence that Stiles get in the car.

Stiles sighed, climbing into the Camaro with a reluctant frown and crossing his arms in annoyance when Derek closed the door behind him.

He supposed Derek’s refusal to leave him alone was to be expected, if not because of his job then because of the unbreakable stubbornness they seemed to share. Still, that didn’t make his interference any less infuriating.

He eyed Derek as he climbed into the drivers seat and roared the car to life. Frankly he wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t putting up more of a fight to escape. If he exercised even a tiny amount of his power he was certain Derek would have no hope of standing against him.

Perhaps he didn’t want to fully abandon the old Stiles that still reflected in Derek’s eyes when the man looked at him. The Stiles that was innocent and good and oh so human all those years ago. The Stiles that didn’t know about his mother’s murder or about the corruption of the precinct that raised him or about his powerful lineage and the dangers that came along with his abilities.

Or perhaps he wasn’t ready to completely turn his back on the man he once loved. The broody werewolf who he could argue with and trust implicitly and who had stood beside him through the darkest parts of his life in Beacon Hills. Maybe a small part of him was hoping Derek would do the same even now – forgive Stiles all his past crimes and treat him with the understanding that only came with similar experiences.

Or maybe he just really hated crappy motel rooms and was willing to put up with Derek’s overbearing supervision in exchange for a real bed that didn’t trigger nightmares of covert facilities and torture.

Whatever the reason, he was going back with Derek, hopefully getting a decent night’s sleep and dealing with everything else in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles blinked awake, the first rays of morning light filtering in through the curtains and making him squint as his vision adjusted to the sun. He sat up, stretching his neck against the stiffness of sleep and glancing around the room.

He noticed Derek almost immediately, his eyes fixing on the man passed out in an armchair in the corner of the room. Stiles could only imagine the logic Derek had used to spend the night so close to him – most likely recounting Stiles’ multiple, not to mention successful, escape attempts. Clearly Derek wasn’t taking any chances this time around.

Stiles rolled his eyes and climbed out of bed, treading lightly so as not to wake the sleeping wolf. The morning air was cool outside the warmth of his covers, nipping at his bare, tattooed skin and making him regret falling into bed in nothing but baggy pajama pants.

He found himself wandering to the kitchen before he even registered where he was heading. The coffee was the first thing he went in search of, the smell of fresh brew flooding the kitchen and making him strum his fingers on the counter in impatience at the slow machine.

Imprisonment hadn’t exactly allowed him luxuries like caffeine and since his release he couldn’t help but drink as much as was possible before his inevitable return. The habit didn’t exactly help his already hyper nature but frankly he couldn’t have cared less if he tried.

He was half way through smearing peanut butter on a piece of toast when he heard Derek bark an angry “ _fuck_!” and race down the stairs with heavy stomping and more than a few profanities.

“Problem?” Stiles arched a brow with a knowing smirk when Derek froze in the door of the kitchen, clearly shocked he was still in the house.

“You were gone.” Derek replied after a moment’s pause, as if skeptical he was even seeing Stiles never mind answering his question.

Stiles raised his cup of coffee with a shrug and brows raised in silent mocking of Derek’s overreaction.

“You slept in my room.” Stiles spoke, taking a bite of his toast and eyeing Derek with annoyed amusement.

“My house, my room.” Derek responded flatly.

“Well I was going to take a shower.” Stiles replied sarcastically, biting his lip ring before continuing. “So based on your logic I guess you’ll be joining me.”

Stiles always loved throwing smutty sarcasm around when it came to Derek. The look on the man’s face had always made it his favorite method of getting under his skin – a mixture of alarm, annoyance and the slightest bit of lust neither cared to acknowledge. The look hadn’t changed, even after so many years away, and Stiles found himself holding back a laugh as Derek’s eyes widened, then darted to his lip ring, before narrowing in broody defiance.

There was a long pause in which Derek eyed Stiles as though studying him, almost as if he were formulating a response in his mind before speaking. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well I stayed in a shitty motel so I got dirty. Hence the shower.” Stiles answered smarmily, eyes filled with silent warning.

“I meant the past five years.” Derek frowned.

“You know what happened.” Stiles’ eyes narrowed in dismissive cautioning. “You read my file.”

“Your file never mentioned an underground facility.” Derek pressed with crossed arms, stepping closer to where Stiles was eating his toast as an excuse not to speak. “Or how you can suddenly move things with your mind.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.” Stiles huffed into his coffee cup in little more than a whisper.

“I’m a werewolf whose family was murdered by a crazy hunter and who poses as a human police officer. Also I recently found out this spastic kid I used to know is supposed to be a hardened criminal.” Derek spoke, an undercurrent of twisted amusement in his gravelly voice. “Try me.”

“The second you know, there’s no going back.” Stiles shook his head in refusal. “They’ll kill you.”

“Who?” Derek arched a brow.

“The same people who tried to kill me.” Stiles snarled in venomous anger, eyes dulling as if reliving something behind his amber gaze.


	8. Inside and Out

“Why wont you let me help you?” Derek growled, careful not to say ‘ _us’_ and restart the same argument they’d been having all morning.

Stiles was nothing if not stubborn and any mention of bringing anyone else in the pack even remotely into the fold only sparked a massive explosion of defiant shouting. Even simply getting him to speak to his past five years was proving difficult and Derek was beginning to want to rip out his hair in frustration at the circles they were dancing in.

“Because you can’t!” Stiles rebutted in a furious bark, jaw clenched around the words and eyes narrowed. “You think being a werewolf means you can solve everything but it doesn’t. The people I’m talking about know about werewolves and kanimas and more things supernatural than you can even begin to imagine.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” Derek frowned, folding his arms and huffing agitatedly at Stiles’ refusal to give an inch.

They’d been arguing for hours – the same conversation over and over again on repeat to the point where Derek knew what was going to be said before it was voiced. Still, Derek hadn’t learned any more about Stiles experiences or the people hunting him than when they’d started their argument.

“If you have any semblance of common sense, yes.” Stiles answered flatly. He surveyed Derek as if searching for something, lips pursing in annoyance at not finding it before he continued to speak. “Derek what do you think I am? You say I can move things with my mind so you must think I’m _something_. What exactly?”

Derek remained silent, his glower only deepening at the question. In all honesty, he didn’t know how to respond without sounding utterly ridiculous. More importantly, though, was that he knew the second he opened his mouth to answer, Stiles wouldn’t give him an inch. Their conversation would devolve back to rolling eyes and silent scowls and an utter refusal to divulge any information. Keeping quiet was the only way to force Stiles to fill in the gaps, to ramble to fill the silence and hopefully reveal something in the process.

“The fact you don’t know only proves how out of your league you are.” Stiles scoffed, shifting his weight as his hand reached up to rub the back of his stiff neck. “I’m not a telepath or whatever it is you’re imagining.”

Derek cocked a brow, silently questioning his declaration without actually voicing his doubt.

When Stiles didn’t continue, didn’t break the heavy silence like he would have all those years ago, Derek frowned. He eyed Stiles, noting his stubbornly clenched jaw, his lips drawn into a thin line that only accentuated his maddening lip ring, and his brows slightly drawn into a defiant scowl that refused to break. His eyes lingered, dropping lower to the exposed tattoos etched across Stiles’ chest, torso, arms, and disappearing into the low-hanging waistband of the sleep-pants he’d stolen from Derek.

His ink looked rough, some cleaner than others, with straighter lines that made Derek wonder just who had been drawing the images scrawled across his skin. His right arm was a full sleeve, stopping abruptly at his wrist as though wearing a shirt instead of a permanent design. His left arm was less busy, several lines of small, messy script on the inside of his forearm and a design inked across his shoulder instead of a full sleeve. The ink on his chest stopped just short of where a buttoned collar would fall and Derek couldn’t help but wonder if the designs had been intentional to be covered when necessary.

“I thought you already had a picture.” Stiles grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes at Derek’s lingering stare.

Derek blinked, as if just realizing how long he’d been caressing Stiles’ body with his gaze, before turning and opening the fridge in search of beer. He emerged with two bottles, sliding one across the kitchen counter for Stiles, who caught it before it could slip off the edge and shatter.

They both cracked them, gulping down heavy sips as an unspoken tension festered between them.

Derek knew it was wrong, to use alcohol to garner information from someone, especially Stiles. But frankly, he didn’t know how else to deal with the new, harder Stiles eyeing him with defiant suspicion. The spastic kid he’d known would have spilled the truth twice over by now, but the criminal standing before him was surprisingly crueler than he’d thought possible of Stiles.

It didn’t take long for them to finish the beer in silence and Derek quickly grabbed two more bottles from the fridge when Stiles set down his empty.

“Who did your ink?” Derek asked once Stiles had cracked the second bottle and taken a gulp – beginning with a safe topic to gauge when the alcohol started taking affect.

Stiles froze, eyes darting to Derek with the bottle still pressed to his lips. He pulled the drink away from his mouth, swallowing audibly before answering “a friend”.

“From prison?” Derek pressed, not wanting to give him an opportunity to retreat back into defiant silence.

“Something like that.” Stiles frowned, taking another swig and shifting his weight.

Derek’s mind filled in the gaps – a friend from somewhere _like_ prison probably meant from the facility. Shit, maybe his tattoos weren’t the safest opener after all.

“No color.” Derek commented, trying to keep his questions vague – at least for now.

“You use what you can in lockup.” Stiles replied flatly, mildly defensive.

“You’re friend must’ve been a good artist.” Derek continued, watching as Stiles sipped at the last couple gulps of his drink.

“He was.” Stiles answered, as if pondering something no one else was privy to. “Once.”

“And now?” Derek arched a brow, grabbing another round – their third - and handing one to Stiles to replace the one he finished gulping down.

“He’s a prisoner.” Stiles ground out, eyes narrowing in fury.

“For what?” Derek asked, as noninvasively as was possible.

“Murder.” Stiles replied shortly.

“Guilty?” Derek asked, speaking into his beer bottle as he took a sip.

“I thought so. At first.” Stiles grimaced, as though remembering something Derek didn’t understand.

“And now?” Derek arched an expressive brow.

“He was framed.” Stiles insisted darkly, taking another gulp from his bottle.

There was a long pause in which Derek eyed Stiles, gauging how far to press on the issue. His amber eyes looked ever so slightly hazy and the fact he was speaking at all was frankly a good sign. Still, it was hard to say whether he was buzzed enough to actually reveal anything of importance. Derek wasn’t exactly privy to his drink limit considering he’d been gone for the entirety of his former drinking years.

He took a sip of beer and decided to press.

“Who framed him?”

“The same people who framed me.” Stiles’ jaw flexed and his grip tightened on the bottle to the point Derek feared it might shatter in his pale hand.

“The police.” Derek filled in, carefully level.

Stiles’ eyes darted to him, narrowing in clear suspicion as if contemplating ending their conversation altogether. Derek’s mouth pulled down in the corners, he could practically hear Stiles’ thoughts just from his harsh expression. It was no secret that Stiles hated cops and, based on Stiles’ bitter glare, Derek wasn’t exactly an exception to his law enforcement aversion.

Derek pulled another couple of beers – round four – from the fridge and handed one to Stiles, who accepted the bottle without a word. No one said a word, a pregnant silence hanging between them until their beers were more than half gone and Stiles’ pale cheeks had a pink flush from the alcohol.

“They murdered my mom.” Stiles bit, fingers grazing over the neck of the bottle as he twirled it on the counter, narrowed eyes never rising to meet Derek’s. “Not Nash.”

Derek silently filed the name away for later review, promising himself to do a thorough check of the criminal database on his next shift.

“So why was he arrested?” Derek asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Stiles’ amber eyes, unfocussed from drinking, darted to his, searching Derek’s expression for something he clearly couldn’t find before scowling and answering as though it were obvious, “They wanted to use him.”

“For what?” Derek pressed.

A small part of him felt guilty for garnering information through alcohol. Still, a much larger part of him rationalized that if danger was following Stiles, it was his duty to the pack – nay, his duty as a police officer – to investigate.

“His power.” Stiles replied shortly.

“So they put him in jail.” Derek spoke, not a question despite his expressively arched brow.

“Not jail.” Stiles expression reverted back to the harsh glower as he spat the words like venom.

“Where you were.” Derek corrected, intentionally avoiding the word ‘ _facility’_ for fear it would jolt Stiles back to his stubborn silence.

Stiles nodded.

“Because you also have power.” Derek eyed him, finally broaching a subject he actually wanted to discuss – Stiles’ abilities.

“We’re dangerous.” Stiles muttered, as though an automatic response, scowling as soon as the words left his mouth.

“How?” Derek’s brows knitted together in questioning.

“Normal people can’t control us.” Stiles eyes darted back to Derek’s.

He could have sworn, for the briefest of moments, that Stiles eyes flashed and his mouth curved up at the corners. But like a mirage, as soon as it appeared it was gone.

“But these people can.” Derek frowned.

Stiles nodded again.

“How?” Derek pressed, debating whether he should hand Stiles another beer given his sudden silence.

“Do you know how they contain a will-based power?” Stiles ground out, his gaze unfocussed as though watching something in the distance Derek couldn’t see. “They break your will.”

“Is that what they did to you?” Derek couldn’t help the bitter bite to his voice, anger boiling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Stiles’ treatment.

“I was in solitary.” Stiles’ eyes narrowed, still unfocussed. “For three years before they let me out.” His knuckles were white around the neck of the beer bottle, jaw clenched at the memory. “Guards couldn’t come near my cell or I would kill them. All they did was torture me anyways.”

His face was dark, murderous fury apparent in every word.

“Three died before they forbade visitors all together.” Stiles grinned, as though pleased with himself rather than regretful. Derek desperately tried to ignore the sickened feeling twisting in his gut as memories of the innocent kid Stiles used to be danced through his mind in stark contrast to the harsh criminal speaking to him. “They didn’t feed me for a long time after that. Until I was desperate enough to allow them near. To leave them alive.”

Stiles’ face fell back to anger, all hints of amusement vanished in an instant.

“I couldn’t live without them letting me, so I had to do what they said.” Stiles bit. “I couldn’t fully control it back then. Two more died in training.” His brows knitted together tightly in strained recollection. “When I had it under control, when I was brainwashed enough to blindly obey despite my power, then they let me meet the others.”

The beer bottle finally gave out under Stiles’ vice-like grip, shattering into tiny pieces in his hand and littering the counter with shards of glass and drops of crimson blood.

“Others.” Derek repeated, snapping Stiles out of his startled stupor as he began collecting the jagged fragments.

“Nash was my partner.” Stiles frowned, accepting the dishtowel Derek handed him for his bloodied hand. “He’d been there the longest. It was his job to keep me in check when we were sent out.”

“Out.” Derek continued his one word prompts.

“To eliminate targets.” Stiles clarified. “That’s what we’re taken for.” A pregnant pause hovered between them before Stiles continued. “That’s why we were kept alive.”

His amber eyes locked with Derek’s for a moment before he tore them away, frown deepening as he cracked his neck, the pink tinge to his cheeks beginning to fade, almost as though his anger were burning the alcohol from his system.

“I was too fucked up to realize I could run.” Stiles ground out, eyes snapping back to Derek as though assessing his reaction as he continued to speak. “My kill count is twenty seven.”

Stiles blinked when Derek finally responded, completely level, after a short pause. “You’re out.”

“Nash isn’t.” Stiles barked, as if Derek were personally responsible for that fact. “The program’s still running and I’m still being watched.”

“How’d you get out?” Derek hedged.

“Nash helped me escape.” Stiles spoke levelly, firm with conviction. “We were both supposed to get out but something went wrong. He was caught.”

“You want to free him.” Derek observed, not a question and thick with disapproval.

“Solving my mom’s murder isn’t just for me anymore.” Stiles insisted darkly, ignoring Derek’s tone. “I need to exonerate Nash.”

“By doing something incredibly stupid.” Derek growled.

Stiles shrugged dismissively, clearly unconcerned.

“Associating with criminals is stupid.” Derek insisted, growl deepening.

“I’m a criminal.” Stiles returned, lips pursing and drawing Derek’s gaze to his lip ring. “Everyone I know is a criminal.”

“I’m not.” Derek shot back, as though a valid defense despite Stiles’ past.

“You were.” Stiles rebutted, thick with sarcastic mockery as he arched his brows in silent judgment of Derek’s past suspicion in murder cases and several arrests.

“Can’t Nash just use his will power?” Derek frowned, voice heavy with annoyance.

“Not a spark.” Stiles yawned, head bobbing noticeably as if slipping into slumber despite his refusal to allow his eyes to close for longer than a few blinks. His last word was slurred and quiet as Derek caught him before he staggered and lulled into unconsciousness, breath fragrant with booze. “Djinn.”


	9. Whispers in the Dark

Stiles lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with narrowed eyes.

After he’d collapsed Derek had carried him upstairs and placed him gently on the bed to sleep it off. He’d assumed that after tucking him in, Derek would leave to fill Scott in on the details of their conversation. What Stiles hadn’t expected was for the usually standoffish wolf to climb into bed beside him and drift off to sleep.

Stiles could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, could track every movement through the strong arm draped across his torso as if a seatbelt keeping him strapped down.

A slight miscalculation in his overall plan, Stiles supposed.

He’d fed Derek just enough information, drank just enough alcohol, to make it seem like he’d be safely unconscious until morning. There was no way for Derek to know that Stiles was completely in control of his cognizance, that the alcohol had given him little more than a mild buzz and that his unconsciousness had been a ploy. There wasn’t the slightest uptick in his heart or change in his chemo signals that would have given him away. He was too experienced for such clandestine mistakes.

He turned his head, tearing his glare away from the ceiling and to Derek’s sleeping face. He looked peaceful, completely oblivious to the fact he was sleeping so soundly beside a man who could easily end his life and was more than conscious enough to do so.

Stiles exhaled, focusing all his willpower on keeping Derek asleep as he sat up and pushed Derek’s arm off of him.

Derek barely stirred, not that Stiles had really expected anything different given his supernatural influence.

He didn’t bother looking back as he left the room, refusing to allow himself that sliver of desire that urged him back to bed and interfered with his senses. Instead, he grabbed a set of keys from Derek’s jacket pocket in the front hall and slipped on a hoodie, pulling the hood up as he strode out of the house.

The roar of Derek’s motorcycle drowned out his thoughts and brought him focus. He had a job to do – he didn’t have time for confusing gestures from broody werewolves with strong arms.

The streets of Beacon Hills were quiet in the dark of the night. The pavement had a reflective glow from the overhead streetlights, making the black road appear an eerie burnt yellow under the stain of dew.

He parked Derek’s bike a few blocks from his actual target – a precaution in case the persistent wolf reported it missing.

The walk was short and uneventful, his hood pulled up to shroud his face and his balled fists shoved into his pockets. He stopped in front of a tall apartment building, craning his neck to glance up the side of the grey brick. All the lights were out, the residents undoubtedly asleep given the hour.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyeing the fire escape raised just out of reach overhead. He closed his eyes, bent his legs and shot upward, grabbing the ladder and hoisting himself onto the metal landing with a deep exhale. He took a second to glance down at the glistening pavement below, an impossible distance for a normal human to jump, before continuing to climb the metal steps.

He reached the top easily enough, the apartments he passed remaining black and reassuring him he remained undetected.

He strode to the far edge of the roof, glancing down at the alley below with narrowed eyes and a hard glower.

The three men below moved with purpose, barely saying a word as they bustled around a paneled van, carrying unmarked crates from the back of the van to the back door of the station.

Stiles crouched down, careful to keep to the shadows so as to remain undetected.

The men unloaded the last of the crates and closed the van doors, glancing around the alley cautiously before pushing the intercom buzzer at the edge of the door.

A long moment passed. Then another. And another. Until finally a young woman Stiles didn’t recognize, clad in police uniform, opened the door with a stern expression. She closed the door behind her as she stepped into the alley and Stiles pulled the gloc from his back waistband, clicking the safety off and watching the exchange below with careful scrutiny.

He couldn’t hear what was being said but, based off body language and her expression, the young cop was lecturing the men about something Stiles didn’t care enough to overhear.

He fired the first shot with steeled determination, exhaling as the bullet split open one of the men’s skulls, splattering the young cop with blood as his body crumpled into lifelessness at her feet.

The young deputy looked shell-shocked for a long moment before she blinked back to life and drew her gun in panicked uncertainty.

Stiles watched her spin in place, pointing her weapon at everything and anything in a childish attempt to seem in control of the situation.

He took out a second man with a similar shot, the body falling next to the first and spreading the already red stained pavement into a canvas of crimson.

The deputy’s panic rose, her breath hitching and her heart thundering in her chest as she fired a shot that lodged in a shadowed portion of the apartment wall.

Stiles put his next bullet in the final man’s shoulder, watching for a moment as he hissed in pain and slid down the precinct wall clutching his shoulder, leaving a smear of blood on the brick behind him.

The deputy turned to face the man, gun still drawn but clearly distracted by her injured comrade.

Using her distraction, Stiles jumped off the apartment roof, landing on his feet unharmed despite the impossible height.

The woman spun to point her gun at him, eyeing him with startled anger that made him exhale in annoyance. He caressed the gun in his hand, making sure she saw he held one despite it not being pointed at her.

“Who are you?” She asked after a moment, tightening her grip on her weapon.

“Why are you involved with criminals?” Stiles asked, ignoring her question.

He couldn’t say he was surprised she didn’t recognize him. It was dark, his hoodie was partially shrouding his face and, perhaps most importantly, his father never spoke of him since their falling out. There was no way a new deputy would know who he was the way an officer who helped raise him would.

He took a step towards her and she readjusted her footing to emphasize the gun pointed at his head.

“You’re betraying the badge.” Stiles all but growled, continuing his stride, completely unaffected by her silent threat.

“You don’t know anything about me.” She snapped back aggressively.

Stiles put his hand over the barrel of the gun, expression never faltering from his steely mask. Her jaw tightened and he sighed, keeping eye contact with her as she pulled the trigger. A moment passed in utter silence, the bang of the gun echoing between them before terrified confusion settled over her features.

He wrenched the gun from her grip, tossing it aside before dropping the bullet she’d fired into his hand.

She glanced at his palm, eyes wide with panic. Aside from a slight black mark tinting his skin where the bullet had impacted, there was no damage. No blood. No broken bones. Nothing.

“Who’s running the operation?” Stiles demanded, voice thick with unspoken danger.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She returned, voice shaking despite her façade of determination.

“Are you really willing to give up your life for them?” Stiles asked, glancing at the man still clutching his shoulder against the wall.

“You’re not going to kill a cop.” She scoffed, eyes darting to the gun still clutched in his hand.

He exhaled, narrowing his eyes at her as he brought the barrel to rest against her temple. She didn’t flinch, her determined expression only deepening with his gesture.

“You don’t know anything about me.” Stiles repeated her words, calm and resigned as he pulled the trigger.

He could feel the warm spackle of blood coating his skin before she hit the ground, sighing as he glanced at her lifeless body and all the answers that had died with her.

A siren sounded and his eyes darted to the man slumped against the wall, eyeing him before pulling his hoodie farther over his face and turning to leave the alley before cops could flood out of the precinct to arrest him.

He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his pants when he rounded the corner, shoving his blood stained hands back in his pockets as he strode away.


	10. Choices

The hospital was just as chaotically busy as it had been all those years ago, almost as though no time had passed since his last visit. Nurses ran through the white halls, responding to pages and assisting doctors as they rushed in and out of the emergency room.

Stiles strode through the automatic doors with purpose, hood still pulled up to shield his face and hands still shoved in his pockets.

He spared a passing glance at the nurses’ desk as he walked by without notice, the women far too concerned with an ambulance arriving and the man spewing black goo all over the tiled floor.

He made a mental note that Scott and the pack would most likely be arriving shortly based on the supernatural component of the man’s illness.

Almost every room he passed was occupied and he couldn’t help but catch snippets of each conversation as he passed open doors.

_“The operation was a success.”_

_“Thanks for visiting.”_

_“Nurse!”_

_“I’m afraid there’s nothing we could do.”_

Stiles hated hospitals.

He tuned out the voices around him, heading straight for the operating rooms.

“Stiles?” A familiar voice called when he was halfway down the last hallway, the large doors to the operating wing only a few feet away.

Stiles stopped walking but did little else to acknowledge the voice calling out to him, hard eyes fixed on the doors in front of him.

“Stiles what are you doing here?” Melissa’s motherly voice pressed.

He clenched his fists tighter in his pockets, listening to each footstep as she drew closer. He didn’t move as she lay a hand on his shoulder, didn’t flinch as she pulled it back in alarm to stare at the bright red now smeared across her palm.

“Is this blood?” She asked, carefully level.

Stiles didn’t speak, simply turned his head to the side to glance at her over his shoulder, her expression making it clear she already knew the answer.

“Stiles, what did you do?” She asked, a mixture of concern and remorse in her voice.

When he remained silent she sighed and grabbed his arm, pulling him back down the hall and into an unoccupied room.

She pushed him onto the stiff hospital bed and he exhaled in frustration, unable to bring himself to lash out at the woman who had stepped into his mother’s shoes after her passing. She stood in front of him, hands on her hips in clear disapproval as she eyed him where he perched on the edge of the bed as if ready to bolt at any moment.

“Off.” She sighed after several long moments of silent scrutiny, crooking her fingers at him as her mouth set into a firm line.

Stiles frowned, brows knitting together and mouth pursing as his tongue ghosted reflexively over his lip ring.

“Take it off.” She insisted, opening her palm flat toward him, voice conflicted yet filled with a mother’s certainty.

“I don’t need your help.” Stiles replied gruffly, fingers tightening around the edge of the mattress he was seated on.

“Tough.” She insisted with a frown.

Stiles sighed, hesitating for only a moment more before reluctantly stripping off his blood stained hoodie and the loose pants he’d commandeered from Derek.

Melissa snatched them so quickly he almost flinched, his brows arching in mild surprise as she dumped the clothes in a small garbage pale and pulled out a lighter. She spared him a single glance, as if justifying her own actions, before setting the clothes ablaze and turning back to him as the room danced with bright hues of yellow and orange.

They locked eyes, a wordless tension festering between them as the flickering light slowly petered to ash, leaving the room dull and filled to the brim with years of unanswered questions.

“Don’t be so hard on your father.” Melissa breathed, breaking the silence as she dumped the remaining ash into a container labeled medical waste.

She turned to grab a spare set of scrubs from a locked supply cabinet, tossing them to him before crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him.

“He made his choice.” Stiles huffed, dragging the pale blue pants over his boxer-briefs and tucking his gun back into his waistband.

“Not everything’s so black and white, Stiles.” Melissa replied flatly, lips pursing in that way that always reminded him of his mother’s expression the day she’d caught him trying to sneak a peak into the precinct cells all those years ago.

He watched her for a moment, reveling in the blissful nostalgia she triggered, until something clicked in his mind so forcefully it was practically audible.

“You know something.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, pushing his welling emotion aside.

A beat of quiet festered between them.

“I know your father.” She finally replied, glancing away before sighing and dragging her gaze back to him with fierce eyes. “And maybe it wasn’t his choice. Maybe there was no choice at all.”

“There’s always a choice.” Stiles all but growled, jaw flexing in anger. “Life is about the decisions we make.”

The pregnant pause between them vanished, obliterated in an instant as Derek burst into the room, expression a mix of broody anger and unbridled urgency as his eyes landed on Stiles.

“I just hope you can live with yours.” Melissa offered, pushing the container of medical waste from the room and leaving Stiles to face an aggravated werewolf.

 

* * *

 

Derek didn’t know what he’d expected to find once he’d finally caught up with Stiles. Waking up to find him missing and the bed cold had been jarring to say the least – mostly because he’d managed to slip away undetected despite his heightened senses, slightly for other reasons Derek was finding harder and harder to discount.

Melissa’s text had taken his breath away. In the midst of everything – a fallen officer murdered mere feet from their hallowed halls and a string of supernaturals poisoned with mistletoe trickling into the hospital – he’d dropped it all the second he knew where to find Stiles.

His mangled priorities scared him, though he refused to admit as much.

Still, the second he burst into the hospital room to find Stiles standing, clad in fresh scrub pants and holding the matching shirt in his balled fist as he stared down Melissa, his other priorities ceased to matter. In that moment all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief – albeit undercut with a fiery anger at Stiles’ lack of regard for his own life.

Melissa closed the door behind her as she left, the click echoing through the small space as if an exclamation point amidst a novel of silence.

“Where’s my bike?” Derek demanded, unsure how to broach any other topic with such raw emotional electricity sparking the air.

“It’s fine.” Stiles rolled his eyes, the edge in his voice sounding almost disappointed. In what Derek wasn’t entirely sure.

“You’re bleeding.” Derek frowned, eyeing the tiny splashes of red dotting Stiles’ pale cheek.

“It’s not mine.” Stiles replied, dragging his hand down his cheek and smearing the crimson into messy streaks.

Derek growled at that, unable to curb the animalistic anger boiling inside.

“You don’t think at all do you?” he demanded, rushing forward until he was barely a step away from Stiles.

“Depends, with which part of my body?” Stiles dripped sarcasm, eyes dancing with dark defiance as his lip ring twitched under the flex of a smirk.

Without thinking Derek reached out as if to grab a fistful of a shirt that wasn’t there, his hand instead pressing against Stiles’ bare chest.

They both stilled, a sudden vulnerability creeping into Stiles’ amber eyes before disappearing into a hardened scowl as quickly as it’d surfaced. Derek’s eyes slowly fell, dropping from Stiles’ gaze to the skin beneath his fingertips. It was rough in places, uneven and raised beneath the designs inked across his flesh. He moved his hand, fingers dragging across Stiles’ chest to find similar scars littered endlessly across his skin. Everywhere there was a tattoo there was a wound expertly hidden by the design, some larger than others but all extremely evident under his touch.

“Stiles.” Derek began, voice low, all anger giving way to concern.

“Don’t, sourwolf.” Stiles exhaled, face a careful mask and voice a calculated mockery that was anything but genuine.

Derek frowned as Stiles grabbed his wrist, halting the exploration of his torso with inhuman force.

“Life is about the choices we make.” Stiles spoke, eyes narrowing into unwavering ice. “This is mine.”

A loud bang echoed somewhere nearby in the hospital, followed by a series of growls and Melissa’s frantic bellow.

“Yours is out there.” Stiles insisted, watching as Derek bristled at the sound of his pack in distress so close.

Derek scowled, eyes darting between the door and Stiles for a moment before he growled and snapped one side of his cuffs onto Stiles’ wrist and the other onto the bedframe.

“Wait here.” Derek instructed, turning to race out of the room.


	11. Answers and Endings

It took Stiles all of ten seconds to break Derek’s cuffs, leaving one rung clasped around the pole of the bed frame and the other dangling from his slightly chafed wrist like a bracelet.

He pulled on the pale blue scrub shirt and eased the door to the room open, half expecting the broody wolf to be standing, unimpressed, on the other side. He wasn’t.

Somewhere in a nearby hall, out of sight but within earshot, Stiles could make out growling and the familiar commotion of claws, fists and gunfire as they erupted.

He grabbed a mask from the cabinet Melissa had forgotten to relock before venturing in the opposite direction to the turmoil.

Of course by the time he reached the operating room it was empty, save for one man mopping blood off the floor who arched a brow at him when he paused in the doorway to glance around.

“Room 205.” The man spoke, sounding utterly bored in his work and clearly assuming Stiles was a nurse.

“Thanks.” Stiles nodded once before turning and heading in search of the room.

It took a few minutes to figure out which wing of the hospital housed the room he was looking for. Apparently there had been quite a few remodels in his absence from Beacon Hills – all covering supernatural damages he was sure.

More than one nurse pointed him in the right direction as they briefly crossed paths. In all fairness, Stiles could have worked at the hospital given his clothes however the noticeable tattoos poking out from under his cropped sleeves should have been a dead giveaway he didn’t belong amongst the other prim and proper employees.

No one seemed to notice.

He supposed he could attribute that to the violent struggle moving through the hospital, bringing with it a panic that clouded rational thought.

Either way, he found room 205 without too much trouble and strode inside feeling the full weight of the gloc tucked into his waistband.

He closed the door to the room behind him, lodging a chair under the doorknob to prevent anyone entering behind him. He paused at the edge of the bed, glaring down at the patient lying unconscious, shoulder wrapped in gauze and IV slowly flooding his body with painkillers.

He grabbed the IV tube, wrenching it out of the bag dangling beside the bed and returning his full attention to the man in bed.

It took a few moments, but eventually the man began to stir, brows knitting together in a pained expression before his eyes sprung open and darted around, landing on Stiles in mild panic.

He reached for the nurses’ call button, Stiles tossing it aside before he had a chance to press it.

“I have some questions.” Stiles insisted, voice dripping venom.

“I’ve got nothing to say.” The man spat, turning his head to glower at the wall instead of at Stiles.

Stiles’ scowl deepened as he pulled the gun from his waistband and rested it gently against the man’s wrapped shoulder, pulling the hospital mask off his face to glare at him properly.

“I suggest you find the words.” Stiles bit, putting slight pressure on the gun and watching as the man hissed in pain as the barrel sunk into his still fresh gunshot wound. “Who’s paying you?”

“Look man, I don’t know anything.” He insisted firmly, voice thick with desperation. “I’m just the driver.”

Stiles put more pressure on the gun and the man yelped in pain, writhing as the white gauze started to bleed crimson.

“Al-alright!” The man stuttered through the pain, exhaling in relief as Stiles eased his pressure slightly. “All I know is we deliver shipments every couple weeks – guns, drugs – and two cops meet us out back.”

“Who?” Stiles demanded, waiting a moment before clicking his tongue and increasing the pressure until the man shouted the answers he was looking for.

“The chick you shot!” He barked, writhing under Stiles’ gun. “And some guy.”

“What guy?” Stiles frowned.

“We didn’t exactly exchange business cards.” The man scoffed, before wincing as if imagining Stiles’ angry reaction. “He’s older, white, dark hair.”

Stiles stood in silence for a moment, eyeing the man in search of a lie. Finding nothing amiss he tucked his gun back into his waistband.

“I’m letting you live.” Stiles promised, narrowing his eyes in warning. “Don’t make me regret it.”

The man nodded frantically a couple times and Stiles stretched the hospital mask over his face once more before un-lodging the chair from the door and striding out of the room.

He glanced back as he rounded a corner, seeing a nurse rushing into the room, undoubtedly summoned to repair the wound he’d both inflicted and reopened.

The hospital halls were far quieter than they’d been mere hours ago, most of the workers hiding in patient rooms to avoid Scott’s ridiculous brawl. Stiles wasn’t complaining, though, the distraction only benefited his escape.

In fact, he almost reached the main doors without a single person crossing his path.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a set of claws slashing into his ribcage. A violent growl erupted from his chest in response and the man trying to slice him in two hissed venomously in return.

He wasn’t entirely sure what the man was, though his razor-sharp claws and glowing blue eyes promised something inhuman.

Whatever he was, he certainly had no qualms about killing Derek, or anyone else for that matter.

His eyes looked crazed and unfocused as they darted around the hospital foyer, skipping from pack member to pack member as if assessing who he wanted to gut first. His gaze came to rest on Derek, violently hissing at a decibel far too piercing to be human, a spray of black goo spackling Derek and making his lips downturn in revulsion.

The man raised his arm to take another clawed swing at him and Derek tensed, raising his hands to catch a blow that never came.

Instead, the man froze mid swing, crazed eyes narrowing slightly and nostrils flaring before he suddenly spun around and took off at inhuman speed.

Derek’s eyes darted to the hospital doors, widening in dread as he realized whom the creature had caught sight of.

“Stiles!” he bellowed, voice gruff and frantic.

Stiles stopped in the doorway, sliding doors open and promising freedom for both him and the creature quickly approaching behind him.

Derek’s heart felt like it was lodged in his throat, a strong taste of copper flooding his mouth and making it impossible for him to shout at Stiles to move. He could count the seconds until the creature reached Stiles, standing oblivious in the doorway.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

The scream was bloodcurdling, a tortured, inhuman sound that echoed through the hospital and made every member of the pack freeze around him.

It took a moment before Derek’s brain caught up with his ears and his eyes, exhaling in relief at Stiles standing, gun drawn, over the man who was writhing in pain and snapping his teeth between piercing hisses.

Stiles’ face was a cold mask that made Derek’s heart ache at how distinctly un-Stiles it was. Visions of the old Stiles – the one who would have been a panicked mess of flailing limbs and half sentences at injuring someone – danced through Derek’s mind, warring with the hard man looming threateningly over the man on the floor.

“Stiles.” Scott called, an uncertainty in his usually steady voice that made Derek frown. “It’s over.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, lowering his gun barely a centimeter at Scott’s words. A heavy tension settled over the pack, all eyes locked on Stiles as they waited for his decision, unmoving as though afraid of prompting the wrong decision.

“Stiles.” Derek spoke, low and pleading as he took a tentative step towards him.

Another beat of silence passed before Stiles clicked his tongue and slowly lowered the barrel of his gun away from the man lying on the floor.

A collective exhale of relief was shared by the pack, a modicum of tension lifting as he spotted Kira visibly slump as she relaxed and Liam uncurl his tightly balled fists.

Of course it was then that the man on the floor decided to spring upright, teeth bared at Stiles as if ready to take a massive bite out of his pale flesh.

For a split second Derek thought Stiles was caught off guard, that he would be peeling his inked body off the hospital floor and rushing him to Deaton while having to explain to his father that he let his convict son leave his sight and ultimately get maimed by a supernatural creature.

A gun shot, loud and deafeningly final as it echoed through the foyer, quickly shattered that notion.

A new sort of tension washed over the pack, ripe with silent shock and somewhat guilty relief at seeing the lifeless body of the man where Stiles’ would have otherwise been. His gaze dragged up, tearing away from the motionless corpse with a gaping bullet hole between its eyes to Stiles, standing stone faced with his gun still pointed at the body.

Derek couldn’t help the whirlwind of emotion surging through him as he studied Stiles’ hard expression. Relief Stiles was safe. Confliction at having just, as a sworn officer of the law, witnessed a murder. Disturbed by Stiles’ apparent lack of concern at having just taken a life. The list went on the longer the silence extended.

“You killed him.” Scott’s voice broke through everything, ringing harshly through the silence.

Stiles didn’t look fazed by Scott’s judgmental tone, simply tucked his gun back into the waistband of his scrubs and narrowed his eyes at his ex best friend.

“He would’ve killed me.” Stiles spoke, completely unapologetic. “I happen to like my head attached to my shoulders.”

“You don’t know that.” Scott insisted, making even Derek bristle at his overly idealistic morals.

Stiles’ amber eyes darted from Scott to Derek, as if sensing their disagreement.

“Do you know what he is?” Stiles asked, tone implying he already had the answer.

Derek glowered, shaking his head.

Stiles rolled his eyes in response, ignoring Scott’s presence altogether as he spoke to Derek.

“He’s an oracle.” Stiles continued darkly.

“A what?” Kira interjected.

Stiles paused, gaze never leaving Derek, as if contemplating ignoring her question altogether. Derek arched an expressive brow, silently echoing Kira’s question and Stiles clicked his tongue in response, lips pursing in annoyance and making Derek’s gaze dart reflexively to his lip ring.

“Prophets revered for their wisdom. A cross between an owl and a man.” Stiles explained, irritated scowl never leaving Derek.

“Weird.” Liam suddenly drawled, mild disgust festering in his exclamation.

“Says the dog.” Stiles scoffed, amber eyes settling on Liam in a harsh glare.

Liam opened his mouth as if to rebut but Stiles continued before he had a chance.

“Oracle’s are peaceful.” Stiles frowned, gaze darting back to Derek. “Something must have affected his behavior.”

Derek could practically see the gears spinning behind his intense stare.

“You know something.” Derek spoke with absolute certainty.

Stiles’ eyes were practically dancing with smug amusement as he returned a short “nope”, popping the p with a smirk meant solely for Derek’s irritation.


	12. The Rules of The Game

Derek stood in Deaton’s clinic, arms crossed and lips drawn into a hard line as he listened to the pack banter back and forth with the infuriatingly vague doctor.

The creature Stiles had shot point blank had, in fact, been an oracle. Deaton had made them sit through a tediously long lecture about murdering rare creatures when Derek and Liam had dragged the body into the clinic and dropped it onto the exam table.

Scott, being his righteous self, had tried to defer blame to Stiles, however Derek had interjected with a dark glower at Scott, simply reassuring Deaton he would be more careful. Scott had frowned but remained silent, undoubtedly planning to lecture Derek once they were out of earshot.

“Are you done?” Liam asked, voice slightly higher than normal.

Derek glanced over at where he was standing in the corner, eyes darting around the room to avoid landing on the corpse Deaton was cutting into. He looked queasy, face twisted into mild disgust and nostrils flared as if unable to filter out the overwhelming scent of death.

Despite his strength, he was still young in many respects Derek supposed.

“Just about.” Deaton replied after a long moment, straightening up and pulling off his rubber gloves with a stiff sigh.

“Well?” Derek prodded, frowning when Deaton began tidying his exam tools in silence.

“Oracle’s are generally peaceful.” Deaton spoke, not even bothering to glance up from his work.

“So we’ve been told.” Derek muttered flatly, visions of Stiles’ smug smirk dancing through his mind.

Deaton glanced at him curiously, arching a brow in silent demand for further explanation. When Derek remained stubbornly silent, Deaton frowned but continued.

“This,” He said, lifting the oracle’s arm for the pack to examine. “Explains his uncharacteristically aggressive behavior.”

“Track marks?” Derek asked, taking a small step towards the corpse to get a closer look.

“It seems he was high.” Deaton nodded.

“What kind of drug makes you a killer?” Liam asked, queasiness suddenly replaced by overwhelming curiosity.

“Well,” Deaton began in the tone that always promised an overly long explanation. “For humans, several drugs can heighten one’s aggression to extremes. However, in this case,” He frowned, lifting a small vial of the creature’s blood to eye with narrowed eyes. “It seems there was mountain ash involved.”

“He was injecting himself with mountain ash?” Scott repeated, expression a cross between horror and surprise.

“Highly doubtful.” Deaton shook his head, putting the vile back on the table with his tools. “He’s wearing a patient bracelet from the hospital. It’s more likely someone cut the drug with mountain ash and he was simply an unsuspecting victim.”

“Sheriff Stilinski mentioned there’s been several reports of inhuman violence.” Derek frowned. “There’ve been a few bodies.”

“I’d need to examine them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the cause were the same.” Deaton offered.

“So someone’s poisoning the supernatural side of Beacon Hills.” Scott growled.

Derek growled, certain his eyes were glowing bright blue as he stormed out of the clinic without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

“You knew!” Derek bellowed, bursting through the front door with such force that the heavy door almost remained permanently implanted in the wall.

The house was silent in response and Derek huffed a growl, tromping up the stairs towards Stiles’ room.

“You knew!” Derek repeated just as violently, throwing open Stiles’ bedroom door and flashing his wolf eyes at him in barely contained anger.

“Heard you the first time.” Stiles replied flatly, barely moving where he was sprawled on the bed, save to take a sip of the beer he was nursing. “As did the moon.”

“Stiles.” Derek growled, fists clenching at his sides.

“Cool it, sourwolf.” Stiles rolled his eyes, setting his beer bottle on the nearest nightstand and rolling off the bed in an overly lazy display. “Would you have believed it coming from me?”

Derek clenched his jaw, unable to argue that he would’ve taken Stiles at his word. He was, after all, a murderer out on parole. A parole he consistently and brazenly violated.

“Exactly.” Stiles huffed, crossing his arms as he came to stand only a few steps away from where Derek was seething. “But hey, you figured it out.” Stiles smirked tauntingly. “Good boy.”

Derek glanced down to Stiles’ outstretched hand, growling at the dog biscuit sitting in his upturned palm.

“What do drugs cut with mountain ash have to do with you?” Derek demanded, batting the biscuit out of Stiles’ hand and pushing him backward until he fell back onto the bed.

“I guess you didn’t deserve a treat after all.” Stiles frowned, looking almost disappointed somewhere underneath his expression of annoyance. “I thought you were supposed to be a cop.”

“Tell me what’s really going on.” Derek demanded, planting his hands on either side of Stiles on the bed so he was looming over him with an exaggerated scowl. “What do small town drugs have to do with your past?”

Stiles scowled back at him, gripping Derek’s wrist the second his hand tried to ghost over the tattoos on his arm.

“Nothing.” Stiles bit, matching Derek’s heavy stare with one of his own. “But this isn’t about my past.” Stiles’ eyes narrowed in accusation. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“Your mother.” Derek spoke, the pieces finally clicking into place. “This is about your mother.”

There was a long pause, pregnant with a suffocating silence as they glared at one another, faces mere inches apart.

“Everything I’ve done has been about her.” Stiles promised darkly.

Another pregnant pause.

“Let me help you.” Derek insisted, searching Stiles’ cold expression for something Stiles didn’t know how to give anymore.

“I could easily shut you out.” Stiles sighed, flipping them so fast it made Derek’s head spin. “But I need you.”

Derek blinked, staring up at him in mild shock he’d conceded so quickly and substantial shock at having been rotated onto his back to effortlessly.

“To be clear, I need _you_.” Stiles spoke levelly, breath tickling Derek’s face and making him shiver. “The second the others get involved our partnership is over.”

“They’re going to investigate.” Derek frowned, brows knitting together. “This drug is killing supernaturals.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Stiles smirked, a dark, twisted expression that made Derek’s skin crawl. “They won’t get very far.”

“This isn’t our first hunt.” Derek rebutted, sounding mildly offended.

“To hunt you need a trail.” Stiles narrowed his eyes in challenge.

“We have the body.” Derek replied flatly.

“The drug addict with no ID.” Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“He has a hospital bracelet.” Derek barked.

“Dead end.” Stiles rebutted shortly.

“He’ll have a file.” Derek insisted.

“You won’t be able to find it.” Stiles huffed, boredom at their back-and-forth quickly settling over his features.

Derek scowled, bristling with aggravation at Stiles’ endless argument.

“I know something you don’t know.” Stiles singsonged, pushing off the bed as if to leave Derek laying in all-consuming curiosity.

Derek growled, grabbing Stiles’ wrist before he could move out of reach and heaving him back onto the bed. The mattress springs screeched under the sudden weight, bouncing as he landed ungracefully amidst the already crumpled covers. Derek rolled onto him with ease, pinning him under the full weight of his muscular body and holding Stiles’ wrists with inhuman strength. Stiles glared murderously up at him, Derek returning the expression just as viciously.

“You want to play?” Stiles arched a brow, a dark, taunting expression etched across his features. “You don’t even know the rules.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles stared up at Derek, arms pinned on either side of his head and dark hazel eyes boring into him through the deafening silence. He knew he should be pushing the wolf aside, throwing him off the bed and running as far away from him as was possible.

He could do it. All he had to do was want it.

But Derek’s expression was hilariously conflicted, narrowed eyes filled with anger yet cutting through him with unmistakable lust, and all Stiles wanted to was tease him. The subtle knit of his brows made Stiles smirk and the heat from their bodies pressed together made Stiles’ heart pound.

Still, he never wanted to resurrect old feelings from a life he’d long left behind. He’d abandoned those parts of himself when he’d abandoned Beacon Hills and he no longer had room for them in the tangled web that was his life.

He glared up at Derek with all the anger he could muster, all the hatred he felt for Beacon Hills and all the determination he had for finishing what he’d started all those years ago.

Derek glared back at him, eyes flitting over his face before meeting Stiles’ gaze head on. A tense silence festered between them for what felt like an eternity. Neither breathed, simply remained in motionless quiet waiting for the other to pull away.

“Teach me.” Derek spoke, voice gravelly as he inched their faces cautiously closer, the gap between them shrinking until Stiles could practically feel Derek’s lips ghosting across his own.

“What?” Stiles exhaled the word, voice catching in his throat, completely taken aback.

“The rules.” Derek muttered, lips dragging across Stiles’. “Teach me.”

Before Stiles’ brain could process the words he never thought he’d have to hear, Derek’s lips were crashing against his in a tsunami of angry kisses fueled by a fire Stiles couldn’t help but give in to.

He relaxed into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut and lips fighting back against Derek’s sudden attack, slowly parting to allow Derek’s tongue deeper access.

A few moments later Derek’s grip on Stiles’ wrists loosened, tentatively releasing altogether before shifting to push Stiles’ shirt up his torso and over his head. Stiles complied, lifting his arms to allow the shirt to come off without obstruction.

Derek was back on him by the time his shirt hit the floor, lips crashing back together so hard Stiles’ lips ring actually hurt slightly in the aggression of it all.

Stiles exhaled deeply when Derek finally broke away, his lips dragging lower on Stiles’ body and undoubtedly leaving violent hickeys across his pale skin in a trail that ended at his waistband. Derek paused there, hot breath tickling Stiles’ skin and making him grab a fistful of Derek’s hair, wrenching it in silent warning against his hesitation.

Derek chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating across Stiles’ skin as his pants were undone and removed with anything but care, Derek forcefully flipping him onto his stomach in the process.

“If this is your idea of an interrogation I should’ve gotten arrested ages ago.” Stiles chuckled as Derek ripped open the drawer of a nearby nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube.

“Shut up.” Derek growled, pouring a healthy amount over Stiles’ hole and working him open with only so much care as was necessary to keep him from being hurt.

Once Stiles was writhing and cursing under his touch, fists clenched tightly around handfuls of bed sheets and chest heaving in search of relief, Derek thrust into him in one swift motion.

Stiles cried out for an instant, quickly biting the sound into a pillow where it petered into a muffled groan. He refused to give Derek the satisfaction, struggling against the consuming pleasure that washed over him as Derek began to move with slow and purposeful thrusts that drove him to the brink of insanity.

Derek growled, fingers digging painfully into his hips as he flipped Stiles onto his back, looming over him with the same cross between anger and lust in his narrowed eyes.

“You’re holding back.” Derek growled, sucking a painful mark onto Stiles’ collar.

“Are you always this cocky?” Stiles scoffed between pants.

“Are you always this stubborn?” Derek returned.

Stiles chuckled, grabbing a fistful of Derek’s hair and forcing their lips together in a violent kiss.

“Usually.” Stiles panted into Derek’s lips, biting down hard on his bottom lip when Derek thrust into him.

Derek’s eyes flashed at the sudden pain and a few thrusts later he was growling as he spilled into Stiles, Stiles following not soon after.

They fell apart, wordlessly panting. Stiles stared up at the ceiling, breath evening as he listened to Derek’s chest level out into the steady rise and fall of sleep.


	13. Dead and Gone

Derek huffed, stretching his stiff muscles into alertness and dropping his arm across the bed. When the cool hardness of the mattress met the warm flesh of his arm he winced slightly, eyes snapping open as he suddenly sprung fully awake.

He glared at the empty bed where Stiles should have been, sheets crumpled but cool to the touch. Clearly he’d been gone for hours.

Exhaling, he threw the sheet off himself and climbed out of bed, walking across the room to where his pants had been hurled. He pulled them on without bothering to find underwear, ignoring his wrinkled shirt as he sauntered out of the room.

Downstairs he could hear shuffling and frowned, unsure what to make of Stiles’ presence. He’d half expected him to have fled the house entirely, another ploy in violating his parole.

He rounded the stairs into the kitchen without a word, eyes narrowed in suspicion at Stiles where he sat, calmly sipping coffee at the counter.

“You’re still here.” Derek spoke, somehow a question though it didn’t sound like one.

Stiles locked eyes with him, a cold expression that held no hint of the intimacy they’d shared mere hours ago. Derek watched as he lowered the coffee cup from his lips, setting it on the counter before speaking in a carefully level voice.

“I wasn’t lying Derek.” He insisted. “I need you. Everything centers around the station an I need someone on the inside.”

Derek crossed his arms, glowering at Stiles as he waited for the inevitable _but_ they both knew was coming.

“But that’s all.” Stiles ground out, grip tightening around the coffee mug on the counter. “What happened last night won’t happen again.”

“And what makes you think I’ll still help you?” The words tasted like poison on Derek’s tongue, uttered in anger yet filled with self-loathing at such a despicable form of blackmail.

Stiles smirked, an expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he surveyed Derek.

“Because we both know you’re a good guy, Derek.” Stiles spoke, voice filled with unbreakable conviction. “Despite what you lead people to believe.”

Derek huffed, an irritated sound that made his nostrils flare and his hazel eyes narrow as his brows knit together.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Derek growled, voice low and gravelly as he struggled to keep his wolf in control in the face of such overwhelming emotion.

“An officer is using the station as a means of laundering drugs.” Stiles explained, standing up from the counter and abandoning his half finished coffee. “I’m looking for the supplier.”

“Who’s the officer?” Derek frowned, skepticism clear in his tone.

“Dun’no.” Stiles answered with a shrug.

“How am I supposed to find something from nothing?” Derek barked darkly.

“You’re a detective.” Stiles replied calmly, dripping with sarcasm. “Detect.”

“I’m not a detective.” Derek snapped.

“Well here’s your chance to step up.” Stiles offered, clapping Derek on the shoulder as he passed, strolling back upstairs and leaving Derek to seethe in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek felt on edge, like a caged animal pacing with its hackles up and teeth bared just waiting for an inevitable attack.

The station was in complete chaos, a delicate balance in place between frantically searching for the murderer of their fellow officer and trying to handle the everyday calls the station inevitably received.

Sherriff Stilinski was barricaded in his office, weighed down by the endless paperwork that came with the death of an officer and the seizure of a large amount of contraband that had been in the alley near her body.

Derek frowned, glancing around at the hectic commotion occurring just beyond his quiet desk. He’d been trying to find any indication of a dirty cop for over an hour – subtly combing through old reports and silently observing everyone’s behavior. Nothing had surfaced.

He hated that he had to suspect his fellow officers. It put him on edge and made his skin crawl with the betrayal of it all.

Still, if he knew anything from his time on force it was that anything even remotely supernatural – like drugs laced with mountain ash – was kept strictly off the books. Even if there was evidence of foul play, where those files had ended up was on a need to know basis and, based on the fact he couldn’t find them, it was safe to say he didn’t need to know.

He huffed, strumming his fingers on his desk and glaring at his computer screen as though he could will some sort of answer to miraculously appear.

After a few minutes of silent seething and a few more careful observations of his fellow officers – all uneventful – he gave up on his task and allowed himself a distraction.

Searching Stiles’ mother in the police database returned nothing but sealed files, not that he was particularly surprised. He frowned but quickly moved on, typing in Stiles’ name and carefully reading his file for what felt like the thousandth time since he’d watched him step off the prison bus all those weeks ago.

There was nothing he hadn’t already memorized – arrested for murdering a cop, sentenced to life by a New York judge, no major incidents while on the inside, and paroled without an explanation of how he’d qualified for early release. Nothing pointed to time in an underground facility and certainly nothing explained his newfound power. Again, nothing particularly surprising.

He huffed, tapping his fingers restlessly on the desk and staring at Stiles’ mug shot and his infuriating lip ring – visible even in photos. He felt restless being at work, his wolf pacing agitatedly inside him at leaving Stiles alone at the house. The ghost of Stiles’ touch still lingered on his skin from their night together, the hickeys long since healed yet still all too present – like tattoos visible to him alone. They weighed him down, dragging his thoughts back to their night together, back to Stiles’ hard expression when he’d rejected any sort or relationship they could have shared. It was a calculated expression that made Derek somehow miss the vulnerability he’d shown in his drunkenness.

Derek froze, Stiles’ slurred words echoing through his mind at a deafening decibel.

His fingers typed the word before his conscious mind even dredged it up from the memory. _Nash_.

A list of convicts appeared on his screen and he scrolled through them, eliminating the ones on parole and those with short sentences. By the time he’d narrowed his search there were three wrap sheets to filter through.

The first was a woman who’d been arrested for murdering her boyfriend when she caught him having an affair and was serving twenty-five to life in a Hawaiian prison. He eliminated her from the list.

The remaining were two men, an older man, age 67, imprisoned for several racially based murders in his youth – eliminated – and a 25-year-old man arrested for the murder of a woman.

He delved into the wrap sheet of the 25-year-old with razor like focus.

An unassuming art student in New York until he suddenly took the life of a random woman while on vacation in California, his wrap sheet was infuriatingly uninformative. Portions of his file were redacted, like the name of the woman he’d killed, and other parts just didn’t seem to add up. He’d spent a year in prison without incident until one day he incited a yard riot and was killed in the commotion.

Derek frowned, rereading the text at least three times before printing out the page and easily slipping out of the station in the commotion.


	14. Lies Become Truth

“You know I don’t like being summoned.” Karla called, slamming the front door behind her for emphasis.

Stiles watched her brows slowly rise in silent judgment as she rounded the corner into the kitchen to find him.

“What happened to you?” She huffed exasperatedly, eyes darting around to survey the disarray.

Stiles took a sip of his beer and shrugged with a dark frown, glancing at the broken glass scattering the floor across the kitchen and the amber liquid slowly dripping down the wall and peeling the paint where it’d made impact.

There were papers, crumpled and torn, strewn across the floor amongst the magnets that once held them on the fridge and the file folders that once stored Derek’s work. A few dishes were broken after having clearly been hurled and one of the stools normally tucked under the counter was lying on its side with a broken leg.

Overall the kitchen looked like a disaster and Karla eyed him knowingly where he sat calmly in the middle of it all.

“A little early to be drinking.” She chastised, crossing her arms and tapping her heeled boot on the hard floor.

“I didn’t call you to be my sobriety coach.” Stiles scowled, finishing his beer and tossing the bottle across the room to shatter alongside the one already dripping down the wall.

She stared at the pieces as they clattered to the floor, a silence hanging between them for a few moments before she sighed and turned to lock eyes with him.

“You know I hate it when you drink.” She huffed, kicking a hunk of glass aside as she sauntered up to the counter.

“Good thing I never listen to you.” Stiles scoffed darkly.

“What happened this time?” Karla sighed, leaning on the counter and setting her lips into a hard line of disapproval.

“Do you know an oracle? Young. Thin.” Stiles rolled his head in an exaggerated circle. “Recently dead.”

“I might.” She nodded. “But something tells me an oracle isn’t what drove you back to the bottle.”

“I’m fine.” Stiles insisted venomously.

“This,” She picked up a shard of a broken plate sitting on the counter and waved it in front of him before lazily tossing it onto the floor. “Isn’t exactly what I would define as fine.”

A beat of silence passed between them, filled with dark scowls and clenched jaws.

“Where’s the cop who owns this place?” Karla asked, glancing around as if expecting him to suddenly surface.

“Out.” Stiles replied shortly. “Work.”

“Then you could’ve come to my place for answers.” She frowned, clearly annoyed Stiles had made her venture out of the safe haven she’d built in her brownstone.

“I was told to stay put.” He rebutted flatly.

“Since when do you do what you’re told?” She scoffed derisively back at him.

“It’s complicated.” Stiles grumbled, glaring at the wall dripping with alcohol.

“Oh my god.” She suddenly drawled, a hint of horror in her voice. “You love him.”

“Love gets people killed.” Stiles ground out darkly, tone insisting she couldn’t be more wrong. “I need him.”

“Stiles for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never once let someone tell you what to do.” She asserted. “Not since the facility.” She paused. “Hell my brother says even in the facility you were a fighter.”

“Do you know the oracle or not?” Stiles barked angrily.

She sighed, frowning before nodding in affirmation.

“Oracles are rare, there was only one in Beacon Hills. His name was Jeremy.” She spoke, voice laced with all the annoyance festering behind her frown. “He was young. Said getting high helped him see better.”

“So he’d been a user for a while.” Stiles asked, more of a statement than a question really.

Karla nodded.

“You know, you might think it’s easier to deny your feelings but you’re wrong.” She suddenly announced, making Stiles’ eyes narrow in warning.

“I didn’t come here to resurrect old feelings from a life I barely recognize.” Stiles ground out darkly, almost threateningly. “The past needs to stay there.”

“If you really believed that you would’ve moved on from your mother’s murder by now.” She rebutted, refusing to back down.

“Are you asking me to forget your brother?” Stiles arched a brow, tone implying he was contemplating doing just that if she didn’t stop.

“Of course not.” She barked angrily, a warning of her own. “But love doesn’t make you weak.”

“I don’t love him.” Stiles bit, eyes flashing unnatural amber at the sheer ferocity of his claim.

“You can lie to me and even to him.” Karla scoffed with a knowing scowl. “But for the love of God stop lying to yourself.”

“Karla _stop_.” Stiles barked with a finality that made her sigh but resigned her to silence. “You know the cost of using my power. You know I won’t be able to protect him when they come.”

“He’s a werewolf, Stiles.” She spoke, softer and more cautious than before. “If anyone can protect themselves, it’s him.”

“If you believe that then maybe you’re the one lying to themselves.” Stiles scoffed.

Before Karla could respond, the front door crashed open with a violence that made Stiles roll his eyes and Derek bellowed an angry “Stiles!” through the house.

He rounded the corner to the kitchen, Karla passing him without so much as a hello as she headed for the exit.

“I’ll text you Jeremy’s address.” She called over her shoulder before disappearing out of the house to leave Derek glowering at Stiles.

“Who was that?” Derek demanded, eyes never leaving Stiles even as the front door clicked shut behind her.

“Doesn’t matter.” Stiles dismissed with a cold detachment that only made Derek’s frown deepen.

“Damn it Stiles, how am I supposed to help you if you don’t tell me anything?” Derek barked, a furious rumble echoing his words.

“I’ve told you everything you need to know.” Stiles responded just as infuriatingly dismissive, a tiny spark of annoyance the only indication he was anything other than collected.

“I think you skipped the part about Nash being dead.” Derek rebutted, slamming a crumpled piece of paper on the counter amongst the shards of glass.

A tense beat of murderous glares passed between them until Stiles tore his narrowed eyes from Derek to the paper sitting beside him.

“Where did you get this?” Stiles asked, barely a whisper as his eyes scanned the sheet, refusing to touch it as though it would somehow bring unspeakable disease.

“The database.” Derek offered, carefully level as he watched Stiles’ expression morph from pain to fury.

“Idiot!” He suddenly shouted, an ear-splitting sound that made Derek wince. “Do you have any idea what you’re messing with? The kind of people you’re inviting by digging into this?”

“I wouldn’t have to dig if you’d just tell me the truth.” Derek threw back, suddenly feeling extremely defensive in the face of Stiles’ anger.

“Have you ever considered you’re in the dark for a reason?” Stiles bellowed, finally grabbing the crumpled paper in a violent motion that put Derek on edge.

“Have you considered I don’t want to be?” Derek insisted just as angrily.

Stiles said nothing, face contorted in utter rage as he turned the dial for the burner on the stove and held the balled up piece of paper over the flame. Derek took a step towards him, more than a little concerned as he watched Stiles stand motionless until the last of the paper disintegrated between his fingers, as though he couldn’t feel the heat of the flame or the pain from his blackened skin.

A piercing chime broke the silence before Derek could form a coherent sentence. He frowned as Stiles pulled a cell from his pocket, completely ignoring Derek’s presence even as he took another step towards him.

“Fine.” Stiles spoke, voice cold with icy rage as he shoved the phone back into his pocket and brushed past Derek towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Derek called after him, taking a step to follow only to hesitate when he abruptly stopped in the doorway.

“We’ve got business.” Stiles replied icily, not even bothering to glance in Derek’s direction as he answered. “Hurry up.”

Derek remained silent, arching a brow at Stiles’ back in silent questioning. Clearly he understood the tense hush as he turned just enough to glance over his shoulder with narrowed eyes.

“They’re already coming for you. I either keep you close to save you or kill you right here.” Stiles ground out, fists clenching at his sides. “Lucky for you I can’t kill you.” He scowled, jaw clenching in resentment. “I still need you inside the precinct.”

Without another word he continued out the door and Derek sauntered after him, ignoring the voice in his mind screaming at being so blatantly used.

“You going to tell me where we’re going?” Derek asked gruffly.

“No.” Stiles bit.


	15. Accomplice

The drive to Jeremy’s was spent in tense silence. Derek had never been one for idle chatter, especially in the face of an argument, and Stiles had proven himself infuriatingly comfortable in the quiet. Stiles’ curt directions were the only words passed between them – ‘ _turn left’, ‘turn right’, ‘straight’_.

The house was in a bad part of town, just on the outskirt of the border between them and the larger county. It was small and dirty looking, weeds overrunning what he assumed was intended to be grass. A few of the windows were boarded up and there was graffiti scrawled across one of the walls.

“This is where you wanted to go?” Derek frowned skeptically, eyeing the decrepit house with clear suspicion.

“Yep.” Stiles answered curtly, climbing out of the car before Derek could even put it in park.

Derek followed him across the overgrown lawn to the front door, rattling the door handle and scowling when he found it locked. Stiles simply rolled his eyes, pushing Derek’s arm out of the way and turning the handle as though it’d never been locked in the first place.

Stiles sauntered inside without hesitation, leaving Derek standing on the front porch glancing nervously at neighboring houses. The moment he crossed the threshold he was officially complicit in a B&E. He supposed he could fabricate some noise complaint – a reason as to why he’d entered an otherwise innocuous home – but with Stiles roaming the house it would be hard to justify bringing a parolee on police business.

“You said you wanted to help.” Stiles called, dragging Derek’s attention from the line on the floor between the porch and the hall tile. “Or was that bullshit?”

Derek narrowed his eyes in defiant annoyance, stepping across the threshold with a clenched jaw before raising his brows in a silent prompt for Stiles to continue further into the house.

Not that Stiles’ needed any prompting to break the law these days.

The inside of the house was just as decrepit as the outside façade led him to believe. Paint was peeling from various walls and a healthy level of dust coated every surface, marred in places where items had recently been moved.

“Whose house is this?” Derek asked, low and suspicious, almost hoping he didn’t have to hear the answer.

“Jeremy.” Stiles answered, as though Derek should have somehow recognized the name.

“Jeremy.” Derek repeated in a low mumble, eyes darting around the kitchen as they passed through.

His gaze landed on the fridge, blank save for one lone photograph hanging lopsidedly by a grimy magnet. The photo was worn, folded in several places and faded as though left in the sun too long. Still, Derek recognized at least one of the faces in the picture.

“This is that kid.” Derek announced, more to himself than anyone else, before grabbing the photo and pointing it in Stiles’ direction. “The one from the hospital.”

Stiles barely glanced in his direction, continuing his exploration of the mostly barren home, sauntering room to room as Derek trailed behind him with a string of burning questions.

“You killed this kid.” Derek accused bitterly, statement a mixture of concern and confusion.

“I know.” Stiles huffed, peering around a doorframe into a tiny bathroom before continuing down the hall. “I was there.”

“Stiles.” Derek barked, making Stiles pause in the doorway of the last room in the house, a bedroom. “Stop.”

“Jeremy was an oracle.” Stiles spoke, eyes darting around the room from his place in the doorway. “That means he could see things.”

“So?” Derek frowned, pocketing the photograph he’d been waving for later inspection.

“So, he claimed the drugs he was taking helped him see those things.” Stiles returned, finally turning to lock his determined gaze on Derek. “He was a frequent user, meaning he had a regular dealer.”

Stiles strode into the room, stopping in the middle to turn in a slow circle, eyes scanning every detail of the space.

“A regular dealer who suddenly sold him tainted drugs.” Derek filled in the blanks, watching as Stiles stopped his spinning to glare at a poster – the only thing decorating the otherwise bare walls. “He probably knows something.”

“I’m more interested in what Jeremy knew.” Stiles muttered, walking over to the poster and dragging his fingers along the crinkled surface. “Or what he was _trying_ to know.”

“You’re interested in what a drug dealer knew?” Derek frowned incredulously.

“No, I’m interested in what an oracle knew.” Stiles narrowed his eyes at the poster before tearing it off the wall. “It probably got him killed.”

Behind the poster was a small opening, barely large enough for someone to fit through and certainly too small for Derek’s broad frame to squeeze into.

“You killed him.” Derek replied flatly.

“I delivered the blow, but someone else set him up to die.” Stiles rebutted in a distracted tone.

Derek watched as Stiles crawled though the small square opening, disappearing into the wall. He peered through after him, half expecting to hear Stiles slam a door he couldn’t see and disappear for what felt like the thousandth time. Instead, he could hear the careful footsteps of Stiles navigating the tiny space before a click sounded and a single light bulb illuminated the space.

The light was dim and flickered often but Derek could still make out the walls plastered with endless photos and red thread wound around countless pins connecting seemingly unrelated images.

“Nostalgic.” Derek frowned, eyes darting to Stiles as images of his old crime board flashed through his mind.

“I heard that.” Stiles huffed, shooting Derek an affronted glare before refocusing on the photos.

Derek watched as he pulled out a phone and began snapping pictures of the collaged walls, carefully capturing every section.

“Shit.” Stiles swore, making Derek bristle at his tone.

He was facing a portion of one of the walls Derek couldn’t see without somehow crawling into the space.

He snapped a few more photos before crawling back out the small opening and stomping out of the room without a word. Before Derek could follow or protest he was back, carrying a container of lighter fluid with a murderously dark expression on his face.

“Stiles.” Derek hedged, taking a step back as he reached through the small crawl space opening and splashed a hefty amount of the fluid across the small room.

Stiles didn’t even hesitate at his name, simply withdrew his arm from the opening and began splashing the fluid across the bedroom. A splash on the dresser, a drop on the bed and a heavy dose on the carpet underfoot.

“Stiles!” Derek barked, backing up out of the room nervously when Stiles pulled a lighter from his pocket.

“What?” Stiles snapped, glaring at Derek, lighter poised for ignition in his hand.

“Stop.” Derek instructed, feeling foolish even attempting to reason with him given his brutal expression.

“How long do you think it will take your fellow officers to find this place?” Stiles ground out, eerily calm given the inferno he was moments from igniting. “What about the pack? You think the rest of the dogs are too stupid to sniff this place out? Even if they are, Lydia isn’t.”

Derek frowned but remained silent.

“What’s in that room is the reason Jeremy was killed.” Stiles bit. “He was mapping the drug operation. The key players. The police. What do you think is going to happen if someone finds that?”

“I think the police will do their jobs.” Derek crossed his arms.

“Even when it’s their faces plastered on the walls?” Stiles barked, flicking the lighter to life in his hand.

Derek barely had time to absorb Stiles calmly instructing him to “ _run_ ” before the lighter hit the floor and the room was dancing with hot towers of billowing fire.

By the time Derek was outside on the front lawn the entire back of the house was up in flames and it was quickly spreading.

He swore, dragging his hands roughly through his dark hair to try and steady his frantic heart as he paced. Stiles was still inside.

It wouldn’t be long before the towering inferno drew the authorities or, at the very least, the attention of neighbors. He paced between the house and his car, riled with confliction. He couldn’t leave without Stiles but he also couldn’t be found off duty at the site of an arson case.

“What are you waiting for?” Stiles called, emerging from the house with a thin cover of soot and an arched brow. “Drive.”

Within seconds they were both back in the car, Derek drastically breaking the speed limit as he tore away from the house quickly turning to ash behind them.

By the time they reached the preserve Derek hadn’t slowed down despite the winding, narrowed roads, his knuckles white across the steering wheel and jaw clenched in silent unease.

“Stop.” Stiles spoke, breaking the choking quiet.

Derek barely heard him through the pounding in his ears.

“Stop!” Stiles bellowed, making Derek slam on the brakes and sending a slew of rocks and sticks spraying up at the sudden force of the vehicle’s motion.

Derek didn’t fully understand what was happening when Stiles climbed out of the car. Even less so when he climbed down the muddy bank into the murky stream just off the road.

It wasn’t until Stiles instructed him to climb down and rinse the soot off his skin that his mouth finally caught up to his brain.

“You made me an accomplice to arson.” Derek spoke, dark with accusation.

“You said you wanted to help. You got involved when I told you to stay out of it.” Stiles answered in a bored, almost derisive tone. “What did you think would happen? I would let the mighty police officer Derek Hale go through the proper channels while I waited patiently to be detained by the people after me?”

Derek blinked from his place on the edge of the road looking down at Stiles in the stream below.

“This isn’t a game Derek.” Stiles’ voice suddenly darkened. “I’m a criminal. A wanted man. _I kill people_. I’m not the kid with crime boards and red string you’re holding on to. Now get in the water and wash the evidence off your skin before we get pulled over because of your crazy driving.”

“Stiles what are you doing?” Derek asked, almost too quiet to hear.

“I told you. I’m getting rid of the evidence.” Stiles answered flatly, climbing out of the stream soaking wet and clean of the soot once smeared across his skin.

“No. What are you doing here? In Beacon Hills. What’s really going on?” Derek insisted louder.

Stiles paused on the shore, eyeing Derek with narrowed eyes, tongue sweeping across his lip ring as a silence spread between them.

“Get in the water.” Stiles finally instructed.

“No.“ Derek refused bluntly. “I’m not helping you with anything until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Get in the water Derek.” Stiles ground out, narrowing his eyes defiantly.

“Find another inside man, get away driver and parole officer unless you give me a valid reason I should be okay with committing arson.” Derek barked, beyond furious.

“Just get in the goddamn water.” Stiles barked venomously, pushing Derek down the small bank so he was shin deep in the murky water. “We’re already late.”

Derek’s mouth drew into a flat line as he contemplated Stiles words. Then, without any further prompting, he waded further into the stream and dunked his face into the cold water.

“Late for what?” He asserted once his face was mostly clean.

“Hurry up and I’ll show you.” Stiles huffed, sounding annoyed as his eyes scanned the tree line on the other side of the stream, tense and alert.


	16. Hell is Coming Through

Derek tried to press Stiles for information as they drove – ‘ _Where are we going_?’, ‘ _What’s really going on_?’ – but once again Stiles was remaining infuriatingly silent and Derek gave up holding both side of a conversation within a matter of moments. He spent the rest of the car ride praying their soaking wet clothes didn’t permanently stain the upholstery.

He couldn’t help but feel relieved when Stiles directed him to park on a street in a high-class neighborhood. He glanced around at the lavish homes, his relief quickly giving way to a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he eyed Stiles suspiciously.

“From arson to robbery?” He hedged, hoping the answer would be a resounding no.

Instead, Stiles climbed out of the car as if never having heard the question in the first place. Derek swore and rushed after him, jogging to catch up to where he was already half way up the front steps of one of the brownstones.

“Stiles.” He barked, quiet enough to avoid drawing unnecessary attention but loud enough to ensure he was heard. “Stop.”

Of course Stiles didn’t even hesitate as he strode up the rest of the steps and pushed open the front door of the brownstone.

“You’re late.” A man huffed, crossing his arms disapprovingly at Stiles from the entryway, as if fully expecting him to have entered without so much as a knock.

“Fashionably.” Stiles shrugged dismissively.

“And dripping.” The man’s frown deepened as his eyes dragged over Stiles’ sopping wet body.

“Like a faucet.” Stiles returned, thick with dark sarcasm.

Derek leaned around him to get a better look at the man, immediately regretting his decision.

His eyes darted to Derek as if noticing him for the first time before his jaw set into a threatening clench and his hand settled behind his back on what Derek could only assume was a gun in his back waistband.

“You know better than to bring a cop here.” The man spat the work _cop_ as though it left a vile taste in his mouth.

Derek’s brows arched, mildly taken aback at being made so quickly. He wasn’t in uniform and he’d barely moved never mind spoken.

“It’s fine.” Stiles cocked his head at just the right angle to reclaim the man’s gaze as he leaned in front of Derek. “Karla’s been bitching about meeting him forever.”

“You know I can’t allow that.” The man scoffed, frowning at Stiles with a combination of fury and fondness Derek couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Let them in.” A female voice instructed from farther in the brownstone, out of sight.

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment until the thick silence was cut by the distinct click of heels on hardwood and the woman appeared at the end of the hall.

“I’ll be fine.” She insisted, eyeing Derek as if daring him to try anything. “We both know Stiles can put him down.”

“Can and will are two different things.” The man huffed, retracting his hand from behind him and stepping aside to allow them entry into the house.

Stiles passed effortlessly, exchanging a silent nod with the man before continuing on only to be greeted with an annoyed frown from the woman.

Derek, on the other hand, was abruptly stopped by a large hand on his chest when he tried to saunter after him.  

“Try anything and I’ll kill you in a way not even a wolf can heal from.” The man promised menacingly.

Derek nodded, not sure what else to say in the face of such a blatant threat and certain asking how the man knew he was a wolf would only set him off.

The man huffed and begrudgingly allowed him to follow after Stiles, walking only a step behind him down the hall.

The second he stepped into the small sitting room the door behind him slammed forcefully shut by the man who Derek could smell lingering just outside the room.

“He’s a guardian spirit.” The woman arched a calculated brow, tossing a towel at him. “He can see your aura.”

“My aura.” Derek grumbled under his breath with a huff, toweling his hair dry.

“I’m Karla.” She nodded curtly before turning abruptly on her heel to fix Stiles with a questioning stare where he lounged on the sofa. “I didn’t think you’d ever bring him here.”

Stiles frowned, amber eyes darting to Derek for a brief moment before settling back on Karla. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“What happened?” She pursed her lips, settling onto the couch opposite Stiles, a small coffee table separating them, a lone candle resting on its surface.

“He pulled your brother’s record.” Stiles answered in an unsettling tone that sent chills up Derek’s spine – he sounded dark, calculating in a way that promised repercussions.

Derek’s eyes darted to Karla, suddenly acutely aware of the familial resemblance between her features and Nash’s mug shot.

“Idiot.” Karla spat fiercely, turning her head to fix him with a furious glare.

“There’s more.” Stiles spoke, still unsettlingly level.

Stiles pulled a tattered, slightly damp, photograph from his pocket, setting it down on the coffee table without so much as glancing away from Karla. The photograph was taken at a strange angel, the side profile of a young girl who was clearly in motion, leaving the edges of her face slightly blurred. It was zoomed in close enough that Derek couldn’t make out her surroundings, but the expression of distress on her face was clear.

Derek watched as Karla’s expression flashed a moment of horror before she quickly recomposed herself and fixed Stiles with a dark, murderous glower.

“Where did you get this?” She demanded, snatching up the photograph and crumpling it in her manicured hand.

“Jeremy’s.” Stiles responded, just as darkly.

Stiles pulled a lighter out of his pocket, the same one he’d used to set the house ablaze, and lit the candle in the middle of the coffee table. Clearly fully understanding his action, Karla held the crumpled paper over the flame until it caught fire. They sat in silence, watching the photograph burn in her fingers until she winced from the heat and dropped the remaining piece. As if on cue, Stiles caught the piece before it could hit the table, watching it burn in his palm with a stoic expression.

Derek rushed forward, grabbing his hand and sending the ashes falling over the carpet in a wave. Karla frowned, glancing at the markings before rolling her eyes at Derek as though he were a belligerent child.

“He’s fine.” She huffed, watching as Derek wiped the smears of soot off Stiles’ palm to find no hint of injury. “His power is based in will.”

Derek frowned, dropping Stiles hand and dragging his own down his face.

“What is going on?” he demanded, a low growl as he glared at the flickering candle.

“Jeremy won’t be an issue anymore.” Karla noted calmly, as if his death was no more noteworthy than grabbing a cup of coffee.

“I disposed of his research.” Stiles nodded. “But he’s clearly already attracted their attention or he’d still be alive.”

“Stop.” Derek barked, slamming his fist down on the coffee table and sending a few small pieces splintering off the finish.

Karla all but snarled at him, eyes fixating on her now damaged table. Derek ignored her, continuing on his tirade.

“What is going on here?” Derek demanded. “Who was the girl in that photo and who killed Jeremy?”

They sat in silence, Derek’s questions stifling amidst the heavy tension.

“You’re clearly scared of their control.” Derek pressed angrily. “I can smell it.”

Stiles expression darkened, his jaw clenching around words he clearly didn’t want to speak as he leveled Derek with a malicious glare.

“You’re staining my couch.” Karla broke through their heated exchange. “Go change into Nash’s old clothes.”

Stiles glanced at Karla for little more than a second before huffing and sauntering out of the room in search of dry clothes.

“You’re wrong.” She snapped once Stiles had left and was safely out of earshot. “He’s not scared of their control. He’s scared of being free of it.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, a silent question she understood immediately.

Derek couldn’t help but feel slightly on edge in her presence, as though his wolf were sensing something about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Even for a normal woman she looked intimidating, petite with perfectly balanced features, large eyes, full lips and flawless dark skin. Her hair was long, falling around her in perfectly styled braids and her nails were impeccably manicured. Frankly, he would have assumed her a model if Derek didn’t already know she was involved in a life far more nefarious.

“Stiles has killed a lot of people.” She stated levelly, studying Derek’s expression carefully. “But all of them, until Jeremy, were ordered hits. He’s not afraid of being controlled he’s afraid of breaking free of the control he’s already under. Because everything he does after that will be on him, and what does that say about him as a person?”

“He doesn’t seem that broken up about it.” Derek frowned, weary to blindly trust her insight.

“Are you telling me you’ve never killed anyone?” She narrowed her eyes knowingly.

Her lips pursed in clear annoyance at him before she exhaled audibly and continued.

“Have you ever wondered what could keep him under their thumb all this time?” She asked, crossing her legs and flicking a piece of the ash Derek had sent everywhere off her knee.

Derek frowned but remained silent, contemplating the question he couldn’t seem to find an answer for.

“For a guy who seems to think he knows everything, you’re rather stupid.” She snipped.


	17. The Baddest Mother

Stiles exhaled, staring at his face in the mirror of the guest bath. He looked worn, tired, the full extent of his sleepless nights written across his face as though a mask. He frowned, splashing himself with cold water and peeling off his still excessively damp shirt. He tossed it messily over the side of the tub, sure Karla would lecture him later but unable to bring himself to care. Derek’s assault on her coffee table would undoubtedly be occupying a significant amount of her lecturing time in the near future.

He peeled off his pants next, followed by his boxers, slinging both over the tub before pulling on Nash’s old clothes. They were clean, dry and more than a little big on him. It felt uncomfortably nostalgic to be in them. The detergent Karla had used hadn’t fully erased his scent and Stiles couldn’t help but wince as he pulled on the black muscle shirt.

It made him feel guilty, to be using his clothes while he was still locked away unable to object. Karla had kept as much of his belongings as she could when she’d moved to Beacon Hills. She’d even unboxed it all when she’d moved into the brownstone, filling the dressers with his clothes and the shower with his favorite soaps and products, as though she fully expected him to walk through the front door at any moment.

Stiles sighed, refusing to dwell on the room, fully furnished yet miserably uninhabited, like some twisted memorial, as he fled into the hallway.

He stopped once outside, cuffing the track pants he’d dawned so he could walk comfortably without tripping over the fabric pooling around his feet.

He rounded the corner, freezing abruptly as he was faced with the barrel of a gun.

“What are you doing?” Stiles demanded levelly, putting his hands in his pockets and slouching slightly, as if completely unimpressed with the whole situation – calm even.

He was met with stark silence and a glazed, unfocused look that made him frown.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” Stiles barked darkly, posture remaining unconcerned despite his harsh threat.

“Stiles.” Karla called, spilling into the hall with Derek trailing behind and freezing in place at the standoff before her.

“John.” She called, sharp and demanding to her guardian, standing with the barrel of his gun pointed at Stiles’ forehead. “Stop.”

“He’s not John right now.” Stiles answered in place of his silence.

The click of the gun’s safety coming off echoed through the hall and Derek roared, taking a step forward as if to run in front of the bullet only to be stopped by Karla’s hand on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Derek fought the urge to sink his claws into Karla where she stopped him from continuing forward.

“No distractions.” She whispered, barely audible even with his supernatural hearing.

He exhaled, feeling inhuman teeth extend in place of his blunt human ones as his heart pumped with unsettled dread.

The gunshot echoed piercing and gut wrenching in its finality and Derek felt the roar he’d been holding back rip from his throat – though he couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. He waited, fully expecting to watch as Stiles’ lifeless body crumpled to the floor. Instead a dead silence filled the hall and slowly, calculatingly, Stiles opened his closed eyes and plucked the bullet out of the air where it spun in place, its trajectory stopped dead by some invisible force Derek couldn’t help but thank wholeheartedly.

The bullet hit the floor and bounced a few times before rolling to a stop out of sight.

“My turn.” Stiles announced in a detached voice that sounded foreign and dangerous.

Before Derek could comprehend what had happened, the gun was in Stiles’ hands and the safety was being clicked off once more. His movements were fluid, almost impossible to follow in their speed and accuracy.

The gunshot erupted into the quiet hall and Derek winced, watching as the man that had threatened him less than an hour ago cried out in obvious agony, gripping his knee to curb the crimson flowing freely from it.

Stiles’ eyes darted up abruptly, landing on Derek for a moment that sent chills down his spine with the harshness contained in his amber gaze. Then, they darted over his shoulder and Derek jumped as another gunshot suddenly exploded in his direction, speeding just over his shoulder to send an unknown woman crumpling to the floor just behind him.

Karla’s guardian – John – groaned, exhaling a shaking breath as he grit his teeth and forced himself to his feet.

“Pain is a wonderful clarifier.” Stiles nodded to him, handing the gun back without any hesitation. “Plus the puppeteer is dead.”

They exchanged a silent nod of thanks before moving on as though the entire ordeal hadn’t just unfolded seconds prior.

“They know we’re here.” Stiles frowned at the body of the woman lying in the hall slowly staining the hardwood bright red. “We need to move.”

“Safe house.” Karla nodded.

“Take her.” Stiles nodded to John. “We’ll meet you there.”

Without a breath of argument, John scooped Karla up before she could object and rushed her away like a whirlwind.

“Where are we going?” Derek asked, eyeing Stiles and trying not to inhale the distinct scent of death beginning to permeate the air.

Stiles frowned, his jaw clenching before his tongue slowly grazed over his lip ring and he answered “Home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek watched Stiles carefully as they drove through the winding streets of Beacon Hills. He looked angry, on edge even, and the closer they got to their destination the more Derek was sure he’d have permanent indentations on his car’s armrest where Stiles’ knuckles were white from his grip.

When they finally arrived, Derek put the car in park and cut the ignition, turning to Stiles in silent suspense, unsure what to expect.

Stiles’ nostrils flared as he exhaled, his tattoos pulling taught over his muscles as he flexed in discomfort, arms clearly displayed in his oversized muscle shirt. He forced himself from the car with a steely glower of resolve that made Derek frown.

He didn’t know what he’d hoped to see on Stiles’ face when he finally returned home, but it certainly wasn’t the cold look of angry disdain he was currently wearing.

Thankfully the Sheriff’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway, probably at the station for the next couple hours given the four-car pile up they’d passed on their way through town.

Stiles opened the front door as if half expecting it to rebel, pausing in the doorway with an expression that made Derek worry he would turn and run at any moment. Instead his cold expression only grew more withdrawn and he stepped past the threshold into the house.

The next few steps were uneventful, making Derek exhale in relief. Of course that only lasted until the bare hallways gave way to framed photographs littering the walls.

Without warning Stiles’ fist collided with a frame, sending glass shards speckled with dots of blood crashing to the floor. Stiles cracked his neck, his expression shifting to one of calculated business as all residual emotion drained from his features and he continued deeper into the house.

Derek followed behind, pausing only a moment to inspect the photo he’d so brutally attacked – an old picture of Stiles and his father smiling at a picnic table in a courtyard Derek recognized from the hospital.

“What are we doing?” Derek asked in a low whisper, watching Stiles stride deeper into the house.

“The supernatural cases are missing from the station, right? There’s no way my father would leave them there.” Stiles returned, not even trying to be quiet as he spoke. “We’re here to get them.”

Stiles rounded the corner into the Sheriff’s home office and paused, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. “I remember where he hides things.”

Derek watched with arched brows as he pulled a large picture off the wall to reveal a small safe behind.

“Ten bucks says there’s a bottle of scotch and the files inside.” Stiles scoffed.

“Assuming you can open it.” Derek returned.

Stiles rolled his eyes, grabbing the handle and pulling the safe open as though it had never been locked.

“Right.” Derek huffed, frowning at Stiles’ smugly raised brow.

He reached inside, pulling out a small black hard drive and pocketing it before reaching back in and pulling out a bottle of scotch. Uncapping it, he took a large swig before handing it to Derek in silent offering and leaving the room.

Derek sighed, taking a small swig to steel his nerves before recapping it and placing it on the Sheriff’s desk. He was definitely fired.

“Stiles.” Derek called, stepping out of the office only to stop dead in his tracks.

“Derek.” Melissa returned, glaring at him in warning before redirecting her attentions to the gun she had pointed at Stiles.

“So I guess surrogate mom has graduated to real mom.” Stiles pursed his lips, eyeing the wedding band she was wearing. “Congratulations. Though the gun does put a bit of a damper on the celebratory mood.”

“I can’t let you take that.” Melissa announced, sweeping past Stiles’ sarcasm with ease.

“You gonna shoot me?” Stiles arched a brow, tilting his head like a cat watching a mouse.

“Maybe.” She hedged, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

“Life’s about the decisions we make, right?” Stiles offered, recollecting their previous exchange at the hospital. “Or is this another case where _there’s no choice at all_?”

She frowned as he parroted her words back, clearly hesitating in the face of her own justifications.

“Do you know what’s on here?” Stiles asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the drive.

“Files.” She stated matter-of-factly.

“The pattern.” Stiles corrected, turning the device over in his hand. “The answers I’ve been looking for. You say you can’t let me take it? I say you don’t have much of a choice.”

“Stiles.” She warned, readjusting her grip on the gun and cracking her neck to steel her resolve. “Some things belong in the past.”

“Not things that are happening in the present.” He returned dismissively, re-pocketing the drive. “That affects peoples future.”

“Your mother is dead.” Melissa reminded him, wincing at her own quiet words. “You can’t bring her back.”

“She’s not the one I’m looking to save.” He returned, expression darkening at the mention of his mother. “I’m looking for the drug supplier. You tell me that, I leave without the drive.”

“I don’t know.” She frowned.

Stiles eyed her, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the other side before speaking knowingly. “You know more than you’re willing to admit.”

She said nothing, her eyes narrowing slightly in response to the accusation.

“Melissa.” Derek spoke, level and cautious as he took a small step toward her. “You’re not a killer.”

“And you’re not a thief.” She returned bluntly, eyes flitting to him in disapproval before resettling on Stiles. “Looks like things change.”

“We both know you can’t shoot me.” Stiles scoffed darkly, a threatening undercurrent to his words. “And we both know the only reason you’d be willing to in the first place is for Scott.”

Melissa exhaled through her nose, jaw flexing as she tightened her grip on the gun.

“So how about you let me walk out of here and I promise to leave him out of it.” Stiles vowed, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I have zero interest in seeing him. That being said, I’m leaving with this drive whether or not you shoot me. Just keep in mind a bullet to the head might make me crazy enough to give it to him once I’m done.”

Derek could see the confliction war across her features, brows knitting into a tense grimace.

“Good choice.” Stiles offered, eyes darting to Derek before he turned on his heel and strode away as she lowered the gun.

“Derek.” Melissa called after him when he turned to silently follow. “Take care of him.”

Derek paused, glancing over his shoulder at the hardened expression on her face. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to keep Stiles out of trouble or end him before he caused more. Her expression didn’t help clarify her meaning any more than her cold words.

He nodded, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to but all too certain he couldn’t bring himself to defy his Alpha’s mother any more than he already had. Her expression softened slightly at the gesture and he turned to follow Stiles outside before he could be given any further instructions.


End file.
